


Wear Your Colours

by Metallic_Sweet



Series: Wear Your Colours [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: (throwing medieval etiquette into a blender like all good Fire Emblem games), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bath Houses, Books, Canon-Typical Violence, Courtly Love, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Golden Deer Route, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Politics, Power Dynamics, Self-Discovery, Sharing a Bed, puzzle boxes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-10-17 21:17:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 35,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20627687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Metallic_Sweet/pseuds/Metallic_Sweet
Summary: In the privacy of Garreg Mach, Dimitri and Claude tumble each other.Or, how Claude taps Dimitri’s wild side, breaks all the rules of courtly love, and throws caution to the wind—sometimes all at once.





	1. Chapter 1

**0.**

It was supposed to be a one-time thing. Something passionate and new. Both Claude and Dimitri understood that it wouldn’t go anywhere. They had their own motivations. Claude posed it as an experiment of sorts, to better understand the male form and body. Dimitri sat for a long moment before nodding. Not quite an agreement, but showing his understanding that it would benefit them both. 

Or, to be exact:

“Claude,” Dimitri said, after they kissed and Dimitri made himself at home on Claude’s lap, “this is a bad idea.”

They were in Claude’s room. It was very late. They had set up to review several maps of the shared border of Faerghus and Leicester, which Lorenz had presented to Claude earlier in the day to argue errors. Claude spent most of his childhood looking east, and Dimitri spent his life looking to the north and west. Studying together for the evening led to searching glances. A furtive intensity that grew each time their eyes met. 

Dimitri is impulsive. Claude is curious. There is where they intersect. 

“Hey,” Claude said, and maybe he was nervous or amused; he wasn’t sure himself, but he laughed anyways, “if this is a bad idea, then it’s yours. I’m not taking responsibility when you’re sitting on me in my bed.” 

Dimitri stared at him. Unblinking. There was no tension to his jaw or cheeks. No tensing or shifting in his neck. Claude kept his smile in place, but it was unnerving somehow. The slightly unfocused quality to the gaze. The stillness.

Claude was just about to retract his last statement when Dimitri blinked. The stillness lifted, although his gaze did not completely refocus. He smiled, though, and it reached his eyes. 

“I will take responsibility,” Dimitri said. 

It was very earnest and not childish at all. Claude shook his head, unsure of what his own smile was doing. 

“Come on, Dima,” he teased because he had to be cunning in the face of such maturity, “it’s just a tumble. Let’s have fun.” 

A tumble. One. A few kisses and touches. Enough to feel warm and unwound and satisfied. Enough to figure out who they were to each other’s bodies without any consequences. Claude knew how to be discreet, and Dimitri knew how to keep quiet. 

There isn’t any point in going further than that. They both have reasons for keeping their bodies under lock and key. Just once, when it was good, and they could think themselves satisfied. 

The problem is:

It was good. 

**1.**

Garreg Mach’s weather is mild. 

Dimitri often sits close to the fire in the evenings. He takes his meals outside of saint days and holidays in the Knights Hall, sitting with Dedue by the large fire. They remind Claude, especially as the weather warms but the nights still have a spring chill, of two hunting dogs. They don’t sun themselves like dogs around the monastery or back home, but they gravitate towards warmth and what comfort they allow themselves. 

In the library, which Claude is initially surprised to discover Dimitri spends a good amount of time in, he keeps his arms close to his sides. The air there is always cool and slightly musty, due to the lack of windows and facing away from any direct sunlight. The uniforms of the officers academy are not particularly warm, and Claude has never seen Dimitri in anything else. 

“Studying late?”

Dimitri blinks. Looks up. Slightly over his shoulder. Claude steps forward, allowing Dimitri’s head to move into a more comfortable angle. The book in front of him on the stand has an extremely bright and intricate presentation miniature. Claude wouldn’t be surprised if the ink alone cost more than both of their uniforms combined. 

“Claude,” Dimitri says, and he sounds tired but unfailingly polite in that slightly detached way he has about him, “what are you doing here?”

Claude lifts his hand. Dimitri looks at the book. At the title on the cover. The blank spine. Blinks. 

“That’s not a library book,” he says, faintly scandalised. 

In the past week, this particular book of bawdy tales with its exquisite illustrations has made its way through the hands of interested members of Golden Deer. Claude pretends that he doesn’t know that it was Ignatz who got a hold of it, and Ignatz pretends he doesn’t know it’s being passed around. Everyone else has pretended they did not see the book but hypothetically ascertain enough about its contents to whisper about it over tea. 

“I was wondering if you’d like to join me for tea,” Claude says. 

Dimitri stares at him. A little confused. Claude waits. Watches the confusion morph into understanding and then the small parting of Dimitri’s lips. He shuts his mouth. Turns a pale pink. Opens his mouth again. 

“Claude,” he says, slightly choked. 

They end up, without much further protest, in Claude’s room. There is no tea. Dimitri sits at Claude’s desk, reading through the first story with the book on the desktop. So as to not tear the pages, Claude guesses. It is practiced, almost painful delicateness. Like a dog, nosing a baby bird knocked out of the nest. 

“The writing isn’t very good,” Dimitri says.

“Mhm,” Claude says because he has just put a bit of bread crust dipped in soft cheese into his mouth. 

“If it wasn’t for the illustrations,” Dimitri says as he carefully turns the page, “I don’t think it would be half as interesting.” 

“So you do find it interesting,” Claude says, dipping a piece of crust into the cheese and shoving it next to Dimitri’s head. “Do you want some?”

Dimitri takes the bread and cheese piece without looking away from the book. He shoves it in his mouth with the opposite amount of delicacy and grace he has treated the book. And Claude, really. Dimitri has been, for the past four times they’ve tumbled each other, as gentle and attentive as Claude could ask. 

He doesn’t ask. They shouldn’t keep doing this. They aren’t supposed to be friends let alone finding comfort and pleasure in each other. 

Claude has never been one to take the beaten path. 

“I don’t know,” Dimitri says after he finishes the first story and looks to Claude with his eyebrows drawn slightly together. “I can see Sylvain or Ashe enjoying this, but this isn’t really my thing.” 

“You like the illustrations,” Claude points out after swallowing more cheese and bread. 

Dimitri is quiet for a moment. He looks through Claude. It isn’t an unfamiliar way for Claude to be looked at because he is used to being ignored and barely tolerated. But it is different with Dimitri. He isn’t looking through Claude because he doesn’t see him or because he finds him annoying. 

Claude isn’t sure if Dimitri is in the same room as him. 

“I don’t know,” Dimitri says at length, and his gaze refocuses; the hair on the back of Claude’s neck is still standing up. “I haven’t seen any illustrations like this before.” 

“Really?” Claude asks, mostly to make the haunted feeling go away. “You’re pretty well-read.”

“Oh, thank you,” Dimitri says, and he smiles, small and almost embarrassed. “Not as well as you. I don’t really read for pleasure, just with what I must.” 

Claude knows what Dimitri reads because he’s seen the books stacked on his desk and in the library. Weapon maintenance manuals. Books about edible plants that grow in harsh environments. Treatises on statecraft and the human condition. Presentation miniatures that indicate who spends the most money on maintaining the Church. A small handbook, buried artfully under unsolved algebra practice, on treating scarred flesh. 

Most people of their class know that Dimitri and Felix have both had their maiden battle, and most of those people know that Dimitri was considered quite distinguished in his actions. Claude had his maiden battle together with Dimitri and Edelgard with the help of Byleth and Jeralt. In that moment, when he raised his bow and shot for the first time with intent to kill:

He realised the largeness of the gap between him and his fellow house leaders and was glad. 

“You should read for pleasure,” Claude says, a little teasing if just to take advantage of the embarrassment in Dimitri. “Sometimes you learn surprising things.” 

“Surprising things,” Dimitri echoes, shaking his head. 

“Dima, come _on_,” Claude whines, getting up from the side of his bed and draping one arm over Dimitri’s shoulder and reaching his free hand to flip the pages of the book. “Look at this one. See where their heads are?” 

Dimitri doesn’t any anything. Claude, despite the temptation, doesn’t look at him and instead taps the image. Emphasising. 

“I mean, it is a man and woman, but the principle would be the same—”

Claude is suddenly pressed up against the wall next to his window. Lifted far enough off the ground that his heels swing back against the wood paneling. His breath exits his chest in a rough huff. He only manages to not hit his head because he’s leaning just slightly forward as Dimitri holds him upward beneath his arms, face buried in Claude’s chest. He can feel Dimitri breathing hard through the fabric of his uniform vest and tunic. 

Dimitri doesn’t tremble. Doesn’t move. Claude has the disconcerting realisation that Dimitri could likely hold him here for hours. 

“Hey,” Claude says, light and amused although Dimitri can likely feel how hard his heart is beating, “what’s this?” 

Stillness. Dimitri has stopped breathing. Claude stares down at the top of Dimitri’s head. This late, his hair is starting to frizz. The starched collar of his uniform has wilted. Claude notices the top of a discoloured raised scar just beneath the fabric. Overlapping a knob of his spine. It is the size of the knob.

His stomach tightens. That doesn’t look like a training scar. 

“Dima?” Claude says, and he cannot completely hide his fear now. “You need to breathe?”

A jolting. Dimitri sets Claude down as if he is made of glass. Takes a couple uneven steps back. He stares at Claude, who straightens his tunic and uniform out to do something with his hands, like a wild animal. 

“Sorry,” he says, hoarse and still not breathing correctly, “I—”

“Warn me next time,” Claude says, very firmly. 

Dimitri stares at him. It is both the most present Claude had had him and also the most openly terrified. 

There are locks, and Claude has been taught how to Steal. 

“Next time?” Dimitri asks, completely uncomprehending. 

Claude opens his mouth. 

He finds himself speechless. 

Claude has wondered what Edelgard and Dimitri’s childhoods were like. He knows a lot more about the wider world than they do, and he knows what is is like not to belong anywhere. That came with a certain amount of freedom, and, while the Alliance’s nobility is catty and fraught, they aren’t violent in the same way the Empire or the Kingdom are. When Claude arrived at Garreg Mach, he had understood that there would be gaps in his abilities. In his physical training and political acumen. It couldn’t be helped. He had tried his best, with the knowledge of the Empire and the Kingdom he had, to scope out his competition. 

That is what this should have been. A learning exercise. Tumbling with Dimitri should have been risk-free because Dimitri is the epitome of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus. He is an aspiring knight, deeply devout, and dedicated to service. He is the opposite of Edelgard, who would have tried to impose her own will first and foremost. Claude, looking at Dimitri in wildness and distress, feels heat building under his own skin faster than Fire and knows:

He has grossly miscalculated. 

**2.**

It’s not just tumbling after that.

Dimitri avoids Claude for a solid week following what becomes mentally dubbed ‘the book incident’. Claude, with the greatest show of self-restraint in his entire life, gives Dimitri the distance. No one appears any wiser aside from Dedue, who glances Claude’s way a total of four times throughout the week. If anyone knows about him and Dimitri, it would be Dedue, who is matched only by Hubert in their closeness to their respective lords. 

Claude is grateful, not for the first time, that he does not have a retainer. He can’t imagine how much trouble he would cause that unlucky soul. 

He uses the week to pull himself together. He passes on the book to Sylvain who gawks at him momentarily before shaking Claude’s hand in possibly the most knightly manner he has ever demonstrate to another human being. Dimitri and possibly Byleth must know the book is making its way around the Blue Lions class, but neither of them say anything. Claude concludes then that it is unlikely that Dimitri has sought any counsel from Byleth regarding what has happened. He can’t imagine Dimitri would tell anyone else because he is an extremely private and viciously restrained person for good reason. 

Claude goes to bed for six nights in a row and tries his very best to curb his enthusiasm for that vicious restraint. 

On the seventh day, Claude wakes up before dawn, changes his sheets, and steels himself to set his plan in place. 

Dimitri is, as Claude predicted, in the baths. 

He is not so much a creature of habit as he maintains a routine. He doesn’t seem to sleep half as much as should, so Claude suspects he spends much of the night puttering around his room with his borrowed library books or wandering. He uses the baths invariably as soon as they open, and he takes breakfast with Dedue when the dining hall opens. They go to train or to the Knights Hall to discuss news until class begins. 

Dimitri is already submerged in the main bath, body obscured by the oiled mineral water. His head rests on the side of the pool, and Claude can tell that his eyes are shut. Dedue is also in the bath, although not as deeply submerged. He looks to Claude as he approaches, eyebrows slightly raised. His surprise isn’t unwarranted. Claude has never been to the baths this early in the morning. 

“Claude,” he says, which makes Dimitri jerk and flip around to face forward, blinking roughly to chase away drowsiness, “good morning.” 

“Good morning,” Claude says, dropping his towel by the side of the bath and stepping in; he winces; the water is really hot. “Woah, is it always this hot?” 

“The fire is still on at this time,” Dedue says as Dimitri dunks his face into the water and scrubs his hands through his hair. “What brings you this early?” 

“Had some weird dreams and couldn’t get back to sleep,” Claude says because it’s better not to lie to Dedue, especially with what he has planned. “Are you always up this early?”

“Usually,” Dedue says as Dimitri resurfaces. 

“Good morning,” Dimitri says, a little rough. 

Claude nods and grins. He settles in, draping his arms around the poolside. His body is becoming used to the temperature, and he has to admit that is is extremely pleasant. He doesn’t blame Dimitri for starting to fall asleep. Dedue eyes him, slightly narrow but not threatening. 

“Claude,” he says, and it’s neither exasperated nor discouraging, “what do you want?”

A soft laugh. Claude shakes his head. He smiles winningly, but small enough to communicate a bit of contriteness. He doesn’t dare tease Dedue in seriousness, especially because any slight against Dedue is Dimitri’s number one berserk button. 

Claude certainly wants to press that button but one-on-one with benefits. 

“Aw, come on,” he says, showing his palms, “I really did have some weird dreams.” 

Both Dedue and Dimitri just stare at him. Identical looks that straddle between exasperated and amused because they’re naked together in a very hot bath. There’s nothing to hide and nothing to watch aside from their own backs. 

Claude respects that. His mother taught him to sleep with his back to the nearest wall and facing the door. She put a dagger in his hand and covered his eyes. 

“Listen first,” she whispered, breath filling the shell of his right ear, “and hold your strike until they are close.” 

He clears his throat. He knows from the way Dimitri’s expression has turned wary and Dedue’s has closed that his momentary lapse showed. He’s still smiling, but he knows that he hasn’t been able to keep it in his eyes. 

He needs to get better at this game. Claude has so many things he wants to do. Needs to do. 

Dying naked in a monastery bath is not his fate. 

“Let’s,” and Claude doesn’t quite recognise his own voice, the tremor and the crack; he clears his throat and refuses to be embarrassed. “Let’s start again.”

Dimitri blinks. Cocks his head. His wet hair slips over his forehead. Water drips onto his lashes. He doesn’t blink. 

“Start again?” he asks, soft and uncertain and so very unconsciously sweet. 

Claude swallows. He feels like he is about to explode. He feels like he is five and his mother has given him a puzzle box from east of Alymra. He is desperate for the sweet he knows that is hidden inside.

“You intrigue me,” he says, and he knows from the way Dimitri’s eyes go wide and his lips part that this he understands, so he forges ahead:

“I wish to court you, Dimitri Alexandre of the House Blaiddyd, if you would permit me. I promise discreteness in reflection of our positions, and I promise to uphold your honor.” 

His heart is hammering. A faint ringing in his ears. 

Dimitri’s lips part further. No sound comes out. He shuts his mouth. Straightens. The muscles in his neck and shoulder contract. Relax. Next to him, Dedue stares at Claude as if he has suddenly turned into a fell beast and declared himself ruler of all of Fódlan.

Slowly, Dimitri’s mouth opens. 

“Claude von Riegan,” he says.

It is regal and solid and clear. He meets Claude’s gaze and does not look away. 

“I permit your suit.”


	2. Chapter 2

**3.**

In courting, there are rules. 

Claude is not entirely certain of the etiquette of the Fhirdiad court, and it isn’t as if he can purchase such a specific courtesy book without someone noticing. He does, however, go to town instead of taking lunch and purchase three books: one on bow maintenance, one adventure novel about pirates in the Far East, and a general courtesy book printed three years ago in the Kingdom. Both the courtesy book and the bow maintenance reference are expensive as they come with illustrations. Claude heads back for afternoon courses with a grand total of three copper coins stuck in the corners of his wallet. 

“You went shopping?” Hilda asks when Claude slides into the desk next to hers.

“Just some books,” Claude says.

“Oh,” Hilda says, immediately losing interest.

He shares the adventure novel with Ignatz after lessons, who gushes over it loud enough in the Dining Hall to attract the attention of Ashe, Ingrid, and, to Claude’s surprise, Ferdinand. Claude eats his dinner, watching the three of them eagerly reading through what turns out to be an exceptionally convoluted but equally entertaining tale. Claude listens to them thrill over the lady pirate’s reveal as he finishes his salad.

“Claude,” Ignatz says when Claude passes by on the way to return his dishes, “you sure you don’t want to read this first?”

“Yeah!” Claude grins. “Enjoy, I’ll read it after.”

“Thank you!” Ferdinand chirps, pumping his fist. “I will get the next one!”

“Oh,” Claude says, taken aback despite himself. “That’d be great.” 

He leaves the group enthusiastically returning to the novel to discover if the lady pirate will be able to take down the sea dragon. Starting a book group is not what Claude intended, but it doesn’t seem any harm. Claude reflects on this as he settles in for the evening, ignoring the letter from his father on his desk for the second night in a row. 

It isn’t, Claude thinks as he brushes his teeth, that he doesn’t want a book group or that he doesn’t want to respond to his father’s inquiries about his fellow students. It is more that he has other plans he wants to devote his time to at the moment. The book group is fortuitous if he wants to get to know students in the Blue Lions better, but he didn’t expect it. As for his father, working out what to share and what not to is the hardest part of being himself. He is known for scheming, observing, and experimenting, less known for drawing conclusions or being useful. 

He grimaces as he wipes his mouth. No point in being maudlin. He has things to do. 

Claude changes into a night shirt and trousers, lights a bedside candle, and climbs into bed with the courtesy book. The fresh sheets that someone has put on smell faintly of lavender, which is very pleasant. He feels a little bad for dumping his dirty ones that morning so unceremoniously outside the laundry building, but he will make it up to the laundress with his next batch. 

“Right,” he mutters under his breath.

He opens the book. It was, according to the reproduced dedication page, written for a young man from his father. Claude skips through the first chapter that covers, in the clear but didactic language common in Faerghus texts, faithfulness to the Goddess and general piety. Most of this he knows, and Dimitri is not someone who likes to discuss theology. 

He skims the second chapter, which is dedicated to the sanctity and goodliness of marriage and preparing an attractive household. From what he knows of the House Blaiddyd, this is important for him to be aware of but likely not helpful for courting Dimitri, who likely assumes he will be providing the household for his future partner. The advice is thankfully not dissimilar to what Claude himself has come to understand would be expected of him should he use the Riegan name as the leader of the Alliance. The primary difference is that there is a lot more instance upon the number of hearths for a warm and welcoming home. 

The third chapter, though, is what Claude has been looking for. Faerghus is not known for its song nor its music, but it is known for its epic poetry and distinctive codes of conduct. Claude reads carefully as the father outlines the rules of courting poems. Claude does not expect to be able to write a perfect lyric, but the father’s suggestions of topics—ranging from a knight expressing devotion to his lady to wordplay should the son feel particularly bold—are helpful. 

The fourth chapter, however, makes Claude pause.

Gifts. 

Most of the suggestions are pointless. Claude might not know Dimitri on as deep a personal level as he does Lorenz and Hilda, but Dimitri is not someone easily impressed by gifts. In fact, the number of material things Dimitri seems to care about on a personal level are far and few between. Aside from his careful treatment of books and obvious enjoyment of all weapons, Claude would be hard-pressed to think of anything Dimitri would like to own. 

The problem is:

_My son,_ the book records, _should the goodly lady find joy in your initial gifts and respond in verse, the present of a dagger to wield in bodily defense should demonstrate your suit serious._

The author goes onto explain that, following the acceptance of the dagger, that is when courting becomes truly serious. It is then that the suitor should expect to enter a tourney and should ask the lady’s favour to wear, taking public the suit. Winning the tourney is not necessary, but striking down at least one opponent is essential:

_Else your lady may find the need to strike you._

“What is wrong with Faerghus,” Claude mutters.

He closes the book. Sets it on the bedside table. He blows the candle out and curls up under his blanket on his side. Puts his pillow of his head. Tucks his right arm under cheek.

His mother’s dagger rests beneath the meat of his palm.

Claude closes his eyes.

**4.**

Claude’s first two poems, which he gives to Dedue in the Knight’s Hall as it is would be against all formal courting etiquette in Fódlan for him to deliver directly to Dimitri, receive no response. He is incredibly glad that he bought the courtesy book then. In the Leicester Alliance and neighboring Imperial territories, this lack of response would indicate disinterest. According to the courtesy book, the courted individual should not respond until at least the third attempt. 

It is, admittedly, rather odd to do this when he sees Dimitri in passing nearly every day. The day he gives Dedue the second poem, Dimitri as well as Caspar compete in the Intermediate Brawling tournament. Claude watches the two duke it out with the faintly uncomfortable knowledge that Dimitri is pulling his punches. If he punched with all his strength, he could probably put his fist through a human body. 

Claude drinks so much water at dinner that Hilda raises an eyebrow at him. 

“Are you getting sick?” she asks, looking ready to pick up her soup and scoot away.

Claude rolls his eyes. Sets his cup down. He picks up his knife and fork and cuts into his steak with gusto. Hilda narrows her eyes at him. 

“You’ve been weird for like a week,” she says. “What’re you planning?” 

He rolls his eyes again. Finishes chewing his bite of steak. Swallows. Hilda hasn’t stopped eyeing him, which means Claude both has to respond and that he hasn’t hidden his anxiety about The Dimitri Situation very well at all. 

He’s going to have to tell a truth. Claude grimaces. Cuts into his steak. It’s rather dry. 

“Have you ever realised you’ve misread your own motivations?”

Hilda squints at him. She leans forward slightly and drums her fingers on the tabletop. Claude won’t dare tell her, but when she lets her cutesy act slip like this, she looks almost identical to her brother. 

“What hole have you thought yourself into, King Nincompoop?” 

“Hey,” Claude says, using his fork to douse his bite of steak generously in au jus.

“Seriously,” Hilda sighs, shaking her head exactly in the same manner as her brother. “Just don’t overthink everything! Be like me, take it easy a little.”

Claude rolls his eyes yet again and shoves his steak into his mouth to avoid having to respond. It is childish, but Hilda is someone who will accept childish excuses not to continue conversations. He wouldn’t be so lucky if it was Lorenz. He has to be more subtle. More controlled. More delicate. 

Subtle and controlled are qualities that Claude has practiced. Delicacy is where, he now realises, he is lacking. 

Courting is a lot harder than he thought it would be. 

His third poem receives a response. 

Claude picks up his letters two days after he delivered the poem to Dedue and finds a sealed envelope between a book he ordered and a letter from his mother. The seal is unstamped and a pale, slightly uneven blue as if made from a combination of two or more different waxes. 

He waits until he has shut his dorm room’s door before breaking the seal and opening the envelope, heart hammering. 

There is no letter or additional paper. 

Instead, Claude extracts an uneven square of blue fabric. He unfolds it, the scent of rose oil pleasant as he does. It’s a handkerchief. The hemming stitches around the edges are extraordinarily clumsy. The border embroidery does, however, form a recognisable if non-uniform pattern of daisies. 

Claude stares at the handkerchief. 

The day before, he noticed Dimitri had several small bandages on his fingers and new shadows under his eyes. He assumed it was due to a night up training or doing whatever Dimitri usually does when he skips sleep. 

Dimitri, after begging Dedue’s help, struggled over this handkerchief all night. 

It may still look like a child made it, but Claude has never been more thrilled. He had no idea that Dimitri likes roses. They do not grow around Garreg Mach and there are no bushes in the greenhouse, so he must have either had the oil on him or bought it in the past two and a half weeks. The courtesy book mentioned that, in scenting her gifts, the lady wishes to thank the suitor with an indirect touch. The scent should inspire future communication. 

Sitting at his desk, Claude lifts the handkerchief to his nose and inhales, grinning like a complete loon. 

**5.**

Over the next two months, Claude writes a poem each week. He likes to think he may be getting better at them, although he does not have the courage yet to attempt wordplay. Dedue doesn’t appreciate his attempts at smalltalk, but he tolerates while receiving the letters. It helps to keep up the secrecy necessary for this courting. 

Three months into this and the day after Byleth causes a spike in gossip by selecting Dimitri for the White Heron Cup, Dedue accepts Claude’s latest letter and says:

“Thank you.”

Claude’s jaw drops. He shuts it almost immediately with a clattering of teeth. He tries to smile. It’s probably far too wide. 

“You’re welcome,” he says, and it is very lucky they are alone in the Knight’s Hall because Claude sounds like an idiot. 

Dedue eyes him in faint amusement before taking his leave, shaking his head. 

In response to this poem, he receives a second handkerchief. Since the first one, he had been receiving embroidered fabric bookmarks. All have basic floral patterns that are quite haphazard and misshapen, but Claude has greatly enjoyed watching his book collection slowly come together with dedicated bookmarks. 

This second handkerchief is, however, quite different. The fabric is plain white but much finer and much larger. The scent of roses is stronger but somehow more delicate; Claude can only guess that Dimitri obtained perfume. The hems are straight-stitched with total accuracy. Claude holds it closer to his evening candle and realises that the thread is silver. 

There is also written response this time. It falls out on a slip of vellum as Claude unfolds the handkerchief. He dives for it, catching the slip in mid-air before it hits the ground. There is one word written in gold ink:

_TOWER_

For a moment, Claude stares at it. Uncomprehending. Is it a code? An abbreviation? Is this Faerghus wordplay? The courtesy book hadn’t mentioned anything like this. 

But then common sense kicks in and Claude remembers this is Dimitri, who is only as creative as he is direct, and Claude understands.

The Goddess Tower.

He feels like Caspar after Dimitri punched him in the face. 

This is how Claude finds himself knocking on Hilda’s dorm room door at just past nine in the evening. The time he takes to knock and for her to crack open the door is one of the longest waits in his life. 

Hilda blinks at him through the crack before pulling the door open further as she adjusts her house coat over her chest. Her eyebrows rise on his forehead, disappearing into her bangs.

“Claude?” she asks, sotto voce. “What’s wrong?”

Claude opens his mouth. Shuts it. He reaches into the pocket of his own house coat, which he threw over his nightshirt for decency. Pulls out the fine handkerchief. He has the satisfaction and disconcerting nervousness of witnessing Hilda’s eyes grow huge. She opens the door wide, grabs the front of Claude’s shirt, and pulls him into the room with all her strength. Claude wouldn’t have been able to stop her even if he had tried. 

“Shit, Claude,” Hilda says after shutting the door without a sound and Claude regains his footing. “Since when have you been courting? Let me see that—”

Claude holds out the handkerchief, which Hilda takes with both hands and a delicate touch. She pours over the handkerchief by her evening candle, opening her venerable embroidery kit and taking out a small magnifying glass. Claude moves closer, hands in the pockets of his coat and pressed against the bones of his hips.

“What—”

“This is Albinean linen,” Hilda says, not looking up. “You can tell by the tightness of the weave. I bet this thread is also from there. They have the best silver mines.”

She looks up. Her brow is scrunched together. 

“Claude,” she says, faintly accusing, “this is serious.”

“I _know_,” Claude says as his heart rate accelerates with anxiety. “I…” 

He grimaces. Holds out his hand. Hilda hands the handkerchief back to Claude, who takes it and folds it carefully before returning it to his pocket. She frowns up at him, still bent next to her candle with the magnifying glass in hand. 

“I’m not going to ask you who it is,” she says, her eyes darting back and forth over his face before she straightens, placing the glass on the desk. “But, Claude, if you’re fooling around, they aren’t.” 

“I’m not fooling around,” Claude says, annoyed. 

Hilda is quiet. She stares at him with an expression that is somewhere between unreadable and dissecting. Claude stares back and lets her look. 

They grew up adjacent to each other, but in moments like this, it is as if they come from different worlds. 

“Hilda,” Claude says, and he hates how weak he sounds but this is how it must be, “I need your help.” 

**6.**

In the week leading to the Cup, students start to gossip about the Goddess Tower and the tale of lovers meeting. The gossip takes over the book club, and Claude sits through Ingrid, Ashe, Ignatz, Petra, and Ferdinand eagerly recounting stories of chivalric love. Ferdinand has switched from Black Eagles to Blue Lions a month back, and Claude senses Petra isn’t far behind. 

“In Brigid,” she says, as she has brought a book of tales from her grandfather this time, “we have horse and Pegasus lords, and they always center our stories.”

“Ooh!” Ignatz breathes as she exposes the dedication page done in looping red and blue ink. “Incredible! Is this with bloodroot?”

“Volcanic stone and lapis lazuli,” Petra says, very pleased by the captive and appreciative audience. “You must show me this bloodroot.”

“I don’t have a fine hand,” Ferdinand tells Claude later in a confessional tone as they walk back to the dorm together, “but if I was to receive calligraphy as a courting gift—well! The only thing better would be tea, but only after we come to truly know each other. What about you?”

“Oh,” Claude laughs because Ferdinand is someone who needs to be responded to, “I suppose I would like handicrafts. I’m fond of embroidery. I think it’s quite difficult.”

“Yes, of course!” Ferdinand agrees, beaming. “My mother was quite talented. I admire anyone who has that amount of dedication and attention to detail.”

Dedication and attention to detail is an excellent way to describe Dimitri even if his skill in embroidery is admittedly lacking. Claude scribbles down Ferdinand’s last sentence once he gets back to his room. It adds to his chaotic notes on the song Hilda strongly suggested he compose to express his seriousness in courtship.

A song. The more Claude thinks about it and the more he spies on Dimitri’s very awkward attempts to get up to form for the White Heron Cup, the more he doubts him attempting to sing would impress Dimitri. It might make him laugh, but Claude isn’t sure his own self-esteem would survive.

So, the next day, Claude tracks down Ferdinand in the stables measuring out grain supplements for his horse. Ferdinand is surprised to see him, which isn’t unfounded. It is just past dawn and not even the stable staff or Marianne are up.

“Claude!” he says, less loud for the early hour. “Is everything alright? I’ve never seen you this early.”

“I’m not usually up this early,” Claude says because he’s not. “I, uh, wanted to follow up on our conversation yesterday.”

“Oh?” Ferdinand asks, fully setting aside the grain bag and scoop. “I can finish this later. Let’s go somewhere better for talking.”

They end up by the well outside the cathedral. Ferdinand pulls up a bucket of water. Claude has a drink from the ladle before Ferdinand washes his hands. He wipes his hands on the knees of his trousers, which takes Claude slightly aback. 

“So,” Ferdinand says, seating himself on the well’s side. 

The whistling of the breeze around them does make this a perfect place to talk about secret things. Claude hoists himself up sit next to Ferdinand. He looks out at the view off this side of the cathedral. At the dawn peeking over Oghma and the mountains.

He wonders, oddly nostalgic, if he had friends in his youth, if they would have sat together like this. 

“If you were courting someone,” Claude says, and he lets the uncertainty he feels show in his voice, “how would you show them you wish to deepen the suit?”

A pause. Not uncomfortable. Just a pause. 

Then Ferdinand laughs. Not humoured. Claude is glad he is looking at the horizon. 

“I am sorry,” Ferdinand says, which isn’t what Claude expected to hear; the words are warm and painful, “but you must be assuming I may choose how I court.” 

Claude does turn at that. Ferdinand is looking down. His hands on his knees. The heel of his boots are notched in a groove in the well’s stonework. A small, awful smile plays on his lips. 

“Please understand,” Ferdinand says, with that same tone and smile, “I cannot answer your question because, for me, courting would be business. I am Ferdinand _von Aegir_. It is political. I only truly have an opinion should there be no compatibility.”

There is nothing to say to that. Claude looks out again. At the mountains. The thin light. 

“Thank you for asking,” Ferdinand says.

Claude looks back. Ferdinand has lifted his head. He smiles at Claude, a very warm and earnest expression. It reaches his eyes. He doesn’t look sad at all. 

He can look like that because he doesn’t pity himself. 

“I always dreamed of having a conversation like this with a friend.” 

Dimitri wins the White Heron Cup. 

It is possibly the worst thing that could have happened to Claude. He drinks a lot of water and tries to pretend he is not affected by the outfit that the Dancer apparently wears. For moral boosting reasons. Dimitri accepts the flowing cloth and jewelry with the regal bearing of a king standing strong in the face of adversity. 

“Dedue,” Claude overhears Dimitri saying at dinner because the two are sitting directly behind him, Lorenz, and Raphael, “I can’t wear this. It doesn’t cover my… It doesn’t cover _anything_.”

Claude shoves a cut tomato dressed in vinegar in his mouth to hide his reaction. Lorenz and Raphael aren’t so lucky. Lorenz chokes on his dinner wine, and Raphael bites his tongue instead of the skewer. Claude has the excuse to get up for a couple more napkins to recover. By the time he gets back to the table, Dimitri and Dedue are cleaning up their dinners, muttering about tea. 

Claude nods to them as they depart, and they nod politely back. Dimitri keeps his eyes lowered, almost demure, and Claude looks carefully to have more of Dedue in his line of sight than him. It feels more than faintly farcical.

“Claude,” Lorenz says, after he sits back down and hands around the napkins, “have you and Dimitri argued?”

“What?” Claude asks, completely taken aback.

Lorenz dabs wine splotches on his uniform vest. Raphael wipes his mouth, eyebrows raised as he listens.

“You and Dimitri used to converse until late,” Lorenz says, waving his free hand. “Now you won’t even meet each other’s eyes!”

“Oh,” Claude says, very awkwardly; he clears his throat. “No, we haven’t argued. I’m sure he’s just, uh, embarrassed, you know. It was pretty obvious we overheard their conversation just now.”

“Hm,” Lorenz says, rubbing at a stain on his collar and eyeing Claude like a vulture. 

This, of all things, spurs Claude to finish his letter for the week a day and a half earlier than he intended. He skips attempting another poem and definitely does not use this opportunity to try wordplay. He crumples up his original draft and burns it over his evening candle, sweeping a small amount of the ash into his ink bowl. His heart pounds in his ears as he drips vinegar into it. 

The small lapis lazuli piece he bought in the market wiped him out of his usual book fund. He works for about thirty minutes, grinding it down in the ash and vinegar. It comes out to a thicker consistency than he usually prefers, but he doesn’t want to add more liquid in case it doesn’t dry completely. The blue is pleasing. He would have preferred to get a tone closer to the Blaiddyd blue, but that would have cost more than his informal budget. He does not want to alert his uncle with a request for more funds. 

Carefully, Claude dips his brush. He glances over his outline, sketched in pencil on vellum. The runic letters he’s been practicing and attempting to shape to his own script. He only gets one chance at this. 

Claude places the tip of the brush down and begins to fill in the letters. 

_YES, PLEASE_


	3. Chapter 3

**7.**

The Goddess Tower looms the night of the ball.

In the days preceding, Claude swallows his pride and requests extra funds. To make a good show for House Riegan at the ball, he says in his letter. In response, he receives nearly double his monthly allowance and an encouraging letter praising him for finally taking his duties seriously. Claude goes to the baths where he sits in the hot water and fumes, feeling insulted because he does, in fact, take everything seriously. It is not his fault that he doesn’t understand why everyone has to act so dour and dull. It isn’t like that in Almyra. No one here in this Goddess cursed land seems to know how to have any fun. 

“Hey, Claude!” Raphael says before noticing Claude’s expression and starting to put his towel back on. “Uh—”

“No, no,” Claude says, and he forces his anger down to smile apologetically, “sorry, I’m just… stewing. I’m almost done.” 

Raphael smiles back. He sets his towel on the side of the bath and climbs in to settle across from Claude. He cups some water to wash over his face. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” 

It is very kind of Raphael to ask. Claude sighs. He runs his hands through his hair, wondering if he should get it trimmed and styled closer to the ball. He doesn’t like most of the styles here. Maybe he can bug Petra to do it. 

“It’s just some family stuff,” he says, grinning and shrugging. “Sometimes I feel like everyone still thinks I’m just a starry-eyed kid.” 

“Ah,” Raphael says, nodding and picking up his soap, “yeah, family can sometimes forget you’ve grown up. My grandmother still thinks I’m wee and made of puppy fat.” 

Claude snorts. “Wee and puppy fat?” he laughs. “You?”

Raphael applies soap to his shoulders and neck. “I have been two heads taller than her for years now, but I doubt she’ll ever change.” 

Claude shakes his head. “I suppose that is like my mother,” he says, which makes Raphael laugh, too. 

Claude goes into town during lunch. He stops by the blacksmith to his repaired iron axe and runs into Felix, who gives him perhaps the most taciturn nod he’s ever received. Claude pays the blacksmith’s apprentice while Felix closely examines with the blacksmith some flaw in a steel sword. He considers, with no small level of absurdity, if someone was to be courting Felix, they should skip all of the poetry and gifting and go straight for an expensive dagger. He can’t imagine Felix appreciating anything else. 

He stops by the Eastern and Southern merchants, examining their gifts. He thinks about tea, but he can’t remember if he has seen Dimitri consume anything aside from chamomile, which he has in his room. There is a selection of ceremonial swords, but the more he looks at them, the less he fancies trying to impress Dimitri with a weapon. It might be traditional for Faerghus, but somehow Claude feels odd. Maybe it’s the fact these aren’t very functional, or maybe he’s uncomfortable giving a gift of which he doesn’t relate to the meaning. 

Claude ends up at the bookseller. Dimitri does not seem to have much interest in the chivalric or adventure tales, and he does not enjoy the Enbarr classics that have had a resurgence. Claude doesn’t want to buy him a weapons manual, and the histories that he can afford are battle summaries, which are even less appropriate as courting gifts. That leaves a collection of ballads and a very overpriced section of tales from Morfis and further east. Claude leaves the bookseller empty-handed and feeling more put out than he expected. 

He really does not want to sing, but he is starting to run out of options. 

This is how, against all sense of self-preservation, Claude ends up knocking on Byleth’s door. He listens to the professor shuffling around inside for yet another long moment, his blood pounding in his inner ear. 

“Claude?” Byleth asks, after opening the door and blinking. “What brings you here?”

“I’m sorry to disturb you on your day off,” Claude says, a little stilted. “May I come in?”

“Oh,” Byleth says, expressionless but reading the atmosphere, “yes, of course.” 

Byleth’s bedroom is nearly as spartan as the professor’s personality. There is a small vase with a handful of wildflowers, and the desk has books likely for next week’s Blue Lions lessons stacked on the right. Other than that, there is very little to make the place look like someone lives in it. Claude isn’t sure if this is because Byleth is used to having little or if it is for a lack of wanting. 

“Please,” Byleth says, motioning to the chair at the desk, “sit.”

Claude shakes his head. Byleth raises an eyebrow but doesn’t press the issue. For a moment, they stand across each other, outlined by the standard dorm room carpet. 

“What’s wrong?”

Claude shakes his head again. Sighs. Looks at the loose weave of the carpet. 

In the inside pocket of his uniform jacket, the fine linen handkerchief feels heavy against his heart.

There is no other way to explain himself. 

“In the past three months, I have been courting Dimitri.” 

Silence. Claude frowns at the carpet. 

“He has responded positively to my suit,” he says, even as his brain barks at him that this is wrong, this isn’t how it’s done, “and I… wanted advice, I guess. About what he might like that he does not already have.” 

A pause. Byleth’s feet shift. The right turning out slightly. 

“Thank you for telling me,” the professor says.

Claude lifts his head. Meets that placid gaze. It is difficult to tell, but he senses that it is different from before. 

“I had wondered if something was going on with him,” Byleth says, posture shifting further to the side in a relaxed stance. “Dedue and Mercedes told me his hand injuries came from sewing, but I was worried.” 

It’s Claude’s turn to blink. He hadn’t realised that Dimitri had reached out to Mercedes, but it would make sense. He’s seen her gorgeous lace work. 

“You were worried?”

Byleth nods. Pauses. Claude watches the way the professor shifts again. He can’t remember of Byleth’s body language was always this restless, or if this is a recent change. Claude feels suddenly far more alert. He shouldn’t miss things like this. He’s been too distracted. Not so much by courting, perhaps, but by his own assumptions. He should have been paying better attention to what is in front of him.

“You’re right,” Byleth says, rather slowly as the pause starts to become uncomfortable; “Dimitri doesn’t want anything for himself. But sometimes…” 

A pause. Byleth frowns. Looks away briefly before looking back. There’s a flat, solemn quality to the gaze. 

“I wish,” Byleth says, halting and tight, “he would. Want. For himself. Do you understand?”

Claude thinks of Ferdinand. That awful little smile he wore that was so free of jealousy and inherently selfless in the face of duty. It was admirable. Truly noble. 

He thinks of how, straddling Claude’s lap all those months ago, Dimitri looked at him. How he smiled and spoke so earnestly as he promised to take responsibility in response to Claude’s ill-timed jest. Now, after months of courting, of watching Dimitri from afar, of thinking over Dimitri’s likes, dislikes, motivations, commitments, Claude understands:

Dimitri does not love himself. 

For how could he, when he comes from a world that values everything but the living? Unlike many of his classmates, Claude has his mother. His father, even. They love him and each other more than anything else in the world. They taught him to love and trust himself first and foremost. Claude believes everyone should be able to experience that love at least once in their lives. 

In Almyra, people of Fódlan are called cowards. Claude has never believed this for his mother is anything but a coward. She is the bravest person he knows. She has given him everything because he is her pride and joy. 

To give that love to another, knowing they may not love you the same: someone has to love you first so you may know such love exists. 

“I understand,” he says because he does. 

Claude returns to his room. Sits down at his desk. He sets his overfull wallet in the drawer and takes out parchment, his seal, and wax. He wets his ink and dips his pen. 

He feels a deep sense of resolve. His only regret is that what he requests will not arrive in time for the ball. The messengers to Almyra always take a few weeks to pass through the mountains, and even longer if they must go by sea. 

_Father_, he writes, _I have found someone to court._

**8.**

The ball is, in short, wonderful.

Claude enjoys himself. He loves these sorts of events, especially when they’re accompanied by good food and drink. Someone has killed a bear for the occasion, which thrills the majority of attendees. Claude himself is most excited for the chance to toast, which he hasn’t gotten to do much since Byleth has led the Blue Lions to victory so often. The wine is not as heavily watered as usual, and the taste of the late summer grapes is heady and sweet. 

He dances with Hilda, Lorenz, and Lysithea, the last twice because this is her first ball and it is rare to see her so thrilled and carefree. Dimitri dances with Ingrid, Byleth, Dedue, and, to Claude’s pleasant surprise, Raphael. He watches Bernadetta, who has somehow been convinced to come out of her room, dance with Edelgard, who otherwise spends most of the dances with Hubert. Claude himself dances with Byleth towards the end of the opening dances, and the professor smiles at him, warm and fond. 

_You’ve changed_, Claude wants to say. _I hope others have noticed._

“Claude,” Byleth whispers in his ear after they spin at the climax of the dance, “Dimitri has just left.” 

They pull away. Bow to each other. Claude concentrates on keeping his expression and bearing in the careful balance of nonchalant but still polite. They take their leave of each other, Claude pretending he needs the lavatory. 

He is lucky that he doesn’t meet anyone on the way out of the hall. There are a few students milling around in the path to the Goddess Tower, but they’re all couples themselves and thankfully self-absorbed. The Goddess Tower itself appears empty and quiet. Serene, almost, especially in the light of the Moon. 

Claude tests the door. Finds it already pushed slightly ajar. He glances over his shoulder and around the courtyard. Takes a deep breath. 

He steps inside. It is almost too dark to see, the only light filtering in from the thin windows. Claude finds and climbs the stairs, thankful for his soft dancing shoes to make his footing easier. This is one of the oldest parts of the monastery, probably a former turret now expanded to a full tower. Besides its legend, it is mostly used as an observation post and for storing grain in a season of surplus. It is, as most things at Garreg Mach, purposeful and oddly remote at the same time. 

The stairwell opens up onto what was likely the base of the original turret. The sky is clear, and the moon and stars are bright. Very distantly, the noise from the ball is audible. 

“Claude.”

Claude turns.

“Dima,” he says. 

Dimitri blinks. Smiles. It’s small and nervous and so very sweet. His academy uniform is neatly pressed and the collar tall with its starch. His head is framed by the moon and its pale light. 

“You came,” he says, faintly awed.

Claude wishes he could capture this moment and keep it forever. 

“Of course,” he says; he doesn’t have to fake anything for once; the joy he feels is real. “I have missed you these past few months.” 

Dimitri’s smile widens. He doesn’t laugh, but his eyes are full of light. 

“We’ve seen each other pretty much every day,” he says, almost a joke, before he huffs on a laugh, “but I know exactly what you mean.” 

Claude steps forward. There isn’t much room on the platform, so it is easy to move in arms length of Dimitri. This close, Claude can smell the faint perfume of rose. Dimitri eyes him, amused. He must have inhaled too deeply. 

“Has anyone else noticed?”

“The perfume?” Dimitri asks before he flushes slightly, breaking eye contact in a manner that Claude can only describe as sweet. “Yeah. Um. Dedue knows. Obviously. I’m sure he’s tired of helping me muddle roses. Probably everyone I danced with tonight noticed, but only Felix commented.” 

Claude blinks. “You didn’t dance with Felix.” 

“Oh, no,” Dimitri says, and he grimaces, looking back to Claude with a sheepish look. “We walked here together to make sure Sylvain didn’t get himself into trouble. It gave him a sneezing fit.”

Claude bursts out laughing. Dimitri looks at him, still sheepish but his smile easier. 

Up close, Claude can see the faint shadows under Dimitri’s eyes have gotten darker. He isn’t sure if it is just the ball, or the recent trouble in Remire Village, or the general disposition to overwork, but Dimitri does look more tired than when they last were this close. Claude wants to reach out. Wrap his arms around Dimitri’s shoulders. 

“In my poems,” Claude says, and he’s gifted with how Dimitri’s eyes brighten and his smile softens, “I pledged, no matter what happens, we will not change towards each other.” 

“Yes,” Dimitri says. 

He pauses. Looks over Claude. At his eyes, nose, lips, throat, neck. He looks down at the space between them. 

“I mean it,” Claude says because he has never meant anything half as much in his life. “I wish that here, like the lovers in this tower’s tale.” 

Dimitri glances at him. Overhead, the moon is bright. 

“When,” he starts.

His voice wavers. Doesn’t crack. Dimitri closes his mouth. Swallows. Parts his lips. 

“These past few months,” he says, and he smiles, small and a little wobbly, “you have made me so happy.” 

A sound. Emotional. Overjoyed. Kind of distressed. 

It takes Claude a moment to know he made it. 

He reaches out. Catches Dimitri’s hands. For a moment, he fears from the way Dimitri’s eyes widen that he will pull away. Instead, his fingers slip through Claude’s. Curl in the dips between his knuckles. His lips wobble again, but his eyes are clear and dry. 

“I won’t make promises,” Dimitri says, soft and confessional. “I don’t have any business making such things.” 

He looks down. At their hands. He turns them, examining Claude’s calluses. Something about the way he focuses makes Claude feel as if this is the first time Dimitri has touched him. 

Dimitri looks up. Clear and present and so very earnest.

“I wish,” he whispers, “for a world where we do not change towards each other.” 

He leans forward. Claude moves with him. 

Years later, Claude will look back on this night and know all the things left unsaid. They could not be changed. 

There is no way to undo all the terrible things that came before. That came after. 

Claude does not live to accumulate regrets. 

For in that moment—

Claude would make war for Dimitri’s kiss.


	4. Chapter 4

**9.**

Things fall apart.

Edelgard is the Flame Emperor. Claude learns this and has to sit down. He, Hilda, and Ignatz sit for a long time in the library. Through the walls, they can still hear much of the monastery staff rushing about. The library itself has fallen into barely controlled chaos since Tomas was revealed as whatever he was revealed to be. Claude does not want to have been at Remire Village, but he feels increasingly as if he was there by proxy. 

Claude returns to his dorm room to lie in bed for two hours before he gives up and gets up. He dresses in his last clean set of clothes because the laundry has not been functioning for the past week. He steps out and heads over to the classrooms because he has a key for the Golden Deer’s room and he feels like being where no one will find him for a while. 

In the arches between the Dining and the Knights Hall, however, Claude pauses. The moon and stars are obscured by the late fall cloud cover, but he can make out a figure crouched in the grassway. Claude watches as it shifts. Like it’s digging or pulling at the grass. It’s movements are human. 

Carefully, Claude lifts his hand. Lean forward. He slips his fingers under the side of his right boot. Curls around the hilt of his mother’s dagger and lifts it free. 

“Hello?” he calls as he straightens. 

The figure stops moving. Claude tightens his hold. 

“Claude.” 

Claude’s mouth opens before he can stop it. “Dima?” he says, stepping forward and watching as Dimitri gets to his feet. “What are you doing?”

Silence. Dimitri shifts. As Claude draws closer, he realises that Dimitri is not wearing the Academy uniform. In the almost pitch darkness, the white of the dancer’s uniform reflects what little light there is. It was covered, in his crouched position, by a winter cloak. Closer, Claude can hear the deepness of Dimitri’s breathing. 

“Is that a dagger?” Dimitri says, slightly breathless.

“What?” Claude says dumbly before realising that he still holds his mother’s dagger at the ready. “Oh—”

He fumbles. Leans down and shoves it back into his boot. He keeps his eyes on Dimitri’s face, still sensing something is off. 

“What are you doing?” he asks again once he straightens. 

Dimitri shifts. Breathes in. Out. 

“Do you have your classroom’s key?” he asks instead of answering. 

“What?” Claude asks, just as dumbly as before; he feels like kicking himself. “Well, yes. Why?”

“Can we talk there?” Dimitri asks without answering any of Claude’s questions so far. 

“Fine,” Claude says, and he can’t help but be a little annoyed.

The annoyance fades once they are inside the Golden Deer classroom and Claude has lit a couple of candles. Dimitri pulls off the winter cloak, which sticks slightly to his skin. He wasn’t wearing it because he was cold. The dancer’s uniform really does not leave much to the imagination. 

“That’s too small,” Claude says before he can stop himself. 

Dimitri turns beet red. He tries to give Claude an intimidating look, but it just makes the situation somewhere between comedic and erotic. Claude doesn’t laugh. He is suddenly aware that it is the dead of night. The night patrol does not come through here. They are completely alone. 

“What,” Claude croaks because this is going somewhere very fast and he is not sure why or how, “were you doing?”

“Trying to practice dancing,” Dimitri says.

He picks up the cloak again as if to put it back on before realising the absolute absurdity and putting it back down. He stands for a moment, clearly at a loss. Claude doesn’t trust himself to say anything. 

“I,” Dimitri says, very awkward, “couldn’t sleep.”

Claude nods. He steps to the side and pulls out a desk chair. Sit down. Dimitri fidgets with the decorative sash at his waist. It’s possibly the only part of the outfit that fits him. 

“What about you?” he asks, not quite able to meet Claude’s eyes. “I didn’t know you walk around at night armed.” 

Claude coughs. “I, uh, don’t. Usually,” he says, and he hopes he sounds less compromised than he feels. “I couldn’t sleep either.” 

Dimitri glances at him. Through his lashes and his bangs, which have stuck to his forehead in sweat. Claude can feel heat crawling up his own neck and cheeks. Dimitri’s gaze is dark. Eyes shadowed. 

There is a wildness that bleeds the air. 

“Claude,” he says, very low. 

“Yes,” Claude says even though he has no idea what he is agreeing to. 

Dimitri sags. Reaches out. He lowers himself to his knees and wraps his arms around Claude’s waist. His head drops to rest in Claude’s lap. Like a puppet with its strings cut. 

Claude’s arms and hands had lifted instinctively. Slowly, he lowers them. Rests his right hand on the crown of Dimitri’s head. The other on his right shoulder. Dimitri doesn’t change his position, but the tenseness of his muscles ease. Not completely relaxation but close enough. 

Claude breathes in. Dimitri breathes out. 

They do not speak. 

They stay like that until the candles burn out and the sun begins to rise. 

The war comes not even a day later. 

Claude, with the news that Imperial troops have been spotted in a night’s reach of Garreg Mach, receives a response from his father. No letter accompanies the Almyran package wrapped in parchment to disguise its origin, but it does not require one. Claude cuts through the packaging, throwing it all under his bed to deal with later.

If there is a later. 

He unwinds the thin golden cloth and carefully extracts the courting chain. 

The gold is thick and long, divided by the sapphires he had requested. He recognises his mother’s handiwork in the setting, and the luxury of the gold is his father’s indulgence. Claude examines the clasps at each end, testing how the soft gold bends to secure itself onto whatever it needs to be attached. 

Claude swallows. Outside, he can hear the preparations for possible siege. Monks and nuns shouting to communicate. He had seen Dimitri along with Dedue walking to the Knight’s Hall, wearing silver gauntlets. He saw Byleth, who is so strangely changed, heading towards the dining hall, presumably for a fast meal. When he picked up his mail, Claude had seen Ferdinand standing with his back to the door as he spoke with Ingrid, Petra, and Sylvain. Ingrid, Petra, and Ferdinand hadn’t seen Claude, but Sylvain had. The look they shared made Claude feel extremely exposed.

He had wanted to speak to Sylvain. To Petra, Ferdinand, or Ingrid. Especially to Dimitri and Dedue.

But they don’t have time. Claude needs to change his clothes. Put on his mail shirt and uniform and then go help Lorenz and Hilda with their plate armour. He needs to pick his bow up from the blacksmith, and then he needs to get new arrows from the armory. The weather is fair and mild for mid-autumn. The harvest has been good this year. 

There is a song that he meant to sing when he presented this chain to Dimitri. 

This isn’t fair. Claude doesn’t often feel this way because he doesn’t live to collect resentments any more than he does regrets. There are so many things he still wants to do at Garreg Mach. So much more that he wanted to learn and explore. So much more he wanted to do for Dimitri. With Dimitri. 

He thought he had more time.

He did not plan for a war. 

Claude is naïve.

Things fall apart.

Edelgard is far better prepared, but there is a dragon and Fell Beasts, and a gorge cracks the mountains like a monster screaming its revenge for being disturbed. Byleth, alone in its epicentre, doesn’t even appear to scream on the plunge into its depths. There is a great deal of other screaming. Some of it might be Claude himself.

In the end, they must retreat. The Church is in chaos as Rhea has apparently gone missing. Claude doesn’t have time to investigate if the dragon that descended from the monastery is what he thinks it is. Hilda was badly wounded by a Fell Beast, so Claude has ordered Raphael and Ignatz to get her home to Goneril territory. Claude spots Felix, who looks like he may have caught fire at some point, being dragged away by Ingrid and Petra from Dimitri at the monastery gates. Dedue has his arms around Dimitri’s left arm. Annette, clearly in tears, holds her axe and is shouting at him to leave. 

Claude and Dimitri are heirs of ruling houses. 

“Dima!” Claude screams; he has no idea what he sounds like; he senses he may be losing his mind; “Dima, wait!”

Dimitri stops. Looks to him. Annette uses the opening to shoulder her axe and pick up Felix’s feet. They rush away, leaving Dimitri and Dedue with Claude stumbling over his feet to get near. He registers pain in his right foot, distantly. He may have broken something at some point. He doesn’t care 

“Claude,” Dimitri says, and his voice is rough; there’s tears on his face along with blood on his uniform doublet; it’s not his blood; “What—”

“Dima,” Claude sobs before closing his hand around Dimitri’s wrist.

Claude is a fool as he tears the courting chain from his hair. He had braided it in for safekeeping. Because he didn’t want to lose it if Garreg Mach was sacked. A good amount of hair comes out with it, but it doesn’t hurt at all.

This isn’t what Claude planned. This isn’t what he wanted. This is unwise and sentimental and stupid because Dimitri is the heir to the throne of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus and Claude the heir of the Leicester Alliance and Almyra. There are no advantages. There can be no great songs.

“Take this,” he begs, pressing the chain, hair and all, into Dimitri’s palm. “Go north east. At the ports of Edmund or Kupala, use it to buy passage—it’ll take you across the Eastern strait. To my parents. You and Dedue, _please_.”

Dimitri is shaking his head, lips parting, but Dedue reaches between them and closes their hands. The chain is locked in Dimitri’s palm.

“No—” Dimitri says, betrayed and angry and hurt. 

“I love you,” Claude chokes. 

Dimitri’s mouth falls open. 

“Thank you,” Dedue says and he begins to drag Dimitri away.

Not north. East.

Dimitri doesn’t struggle. Doesn’t say anything. He might be in shock, or some part of him might still be hearing sense. From the frantic light in his eyes, it could also simply be panic.

Claude can’t watch. If he does, he’ll either collapse or chase after them. 

He turns. 

Lorenz is standing three paces behind, eyes huge and lips open wide. No one else is paying attention. Claude stares at Lorenz and does not know what to say.

For the first time, Lorenz recovers first. He steps forward. Grabs Claude by the shoulders. Pulls and shifts and covers Claude’s back. He uses his greater height to push Claude towards Marianne and Leonie, who have quite clearly stolen an unmounted horse. Claude cannot feel his own body. He is shaking even as he moves them both forward. 

“Come,” Lorenz says, and it’s not a command or a proclamation; his voice cracks; he’s scared; “If it is not safe to travel further, House Gloucester will winter you while Duke Goneril rallies the call to arms.”

Claude nods. Forces himself to try to walk. He has to be better. He has to be strong. 

Dimitri’s handkerchief rests heavy against his heart. 

**10.**

House Gloucester winters Claude for seven months.

Claude’s uncle, before the end of the first week of the war, is murdered by assassins. His shattered head and hand with House Riegan’s signet ring is sent to House Gloucester along with Failnaught. Claude receives the news along with the signet ring and bow from Count Gloucester in the library. Failnaught is oddly light in his lap. The ring is too large for all of his fingers. 

“Do you,” Lorenz asks, soft and faraway against the shell of Claude’s ear, “want to see the remains?” 

Claude stares at the ring. His mother never wore it. It should go to her, but she will not want it. She relinquished her claim, and it is only luck that he bore her Crest. He was never meant to own it. Never meant to have a House let alone authority. His uncle only moved to legitimise him because there was no other choice. 

None of this should have happened. 

“No,” he says. 

Maybe he is a coward. Maybe his greatest act of bravery has been spent. His heart is too loud in his ears. 

“This is proof enough.”

**11.**

It is deep winter when Ferdinand shows up on the south border of Gloucester territory, half-frozen, more than half-starved, and leading about a hundred soldiers and civilians in equally poor condition in tow. At first, both Claude and Lorenz are hard-pressed to believe the scouting report. But then Ferdinand and his battalion arrives at the Bridge, wild-eyed and somewhere between frantic and manic. 

“Ferdinand?” Lorenz calls from the front of the Gloucester line. “Is that you? Why didn’t you send a messenger? What are you doing?” 

Ferdinand doesn’t respond. He stands on the Bridge and stares at Lorenz. It’s unsettling enough that Lorenz turns and stares back through the front lines to Claude, who makes his way to Lorenz back. He has much better eyesight than Lorenz. From this vantage point, he can see that Ferdinand wearing vambraces, gauntlets, and greaves but no mail nor sabatons. He is wielding a sword but also has an alarming great axe of some sort strapped to his back. The axe head is as wide as Ferdinand’s shoulders. He isn’t wearing any colours. 

“What is wrong with him?” Lorenz asks, sotto voce. 

“I’m not sure he heard you,” Claude says, very slowly. “Let’s ride out a bit and try again. Just you and I.”

Ferdinand draws himself up as Lorenz and Claude cross to the middle of the bridge. He looks, if possible, worse as they draw closer. Claude tries not to catalogue how Ferdinand’s arming doublet clearly has arrow holes in the chest. 

“Ferdinand?” Lorenz starts again, unable to hide his alarm. “What’s going on?” 

“Lorenz, Claude,” Ferdinand says, and he sounds as manic as he looks. “I am. Sorry? We are—well, I understand, yes, quite unusual. Uh.” 

Lorenz opens his mouth. Somehow this seems to completely disturb what little was holding Ferdinand together.

“Aegir has been razed,” Ferdinand screams, and suddenly everything makes horrible sense. “I am sorry, please, I have nothing of value to offer, but I beseech you, _please_, shelter for my people!”

It is only early the next morning that Claude is able to sit down with Lorenz in the parlour. Claude had seen to most of the Aegir battalion’s lodging in the town and, for some in the worst condition, in the House Gloucester infirmary. Lorenz looks up from his seat by the fire. There’s a glass of what is very much not tea in his hand. 

“I put Ferdinand in the guest room off the conservatory,” he says as Claude moves to the hearth to poke the fire back to greater life. “The healer said he should be more stable after some rest. He should be kept to light activity for a while. Nothing too shocking.”

Claude picks up the decanter. It’s fairly full. He pours himself a glass of wine. It’s good. Unwatered. He stares at the fire as he drinks a few long sips.

“Did he say where he got the axe?”

“No,” Lorenz says, rubbing his left eye absently. “He’s rather possessive of it. Well,” he amends when Claude looks to him, alarmed, “as possessive as Ferdinand is of anything.”

Claude sits down in the chair adjacent to Lorenz. With the light higher, he can tell how bothered Lorenz is by the tightness of his jaw.

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“No, sorry,” Lorenz sighs.

He takes a deep swallow from his cup before leaning forward to set it on the table. He sits back, rubbing his eyes. 

“The axe was his father’s,” he says, pressing the heels of his palms to his brow. “The Duke Aegir is dead. Ferdinand is now Duke Aegir. Ferdinand got… rather upset on the specifics. The healer recommended we discuss exactly what happened later.”

“Ah,” Claude says because that is all he can really say to that. 

Lorenz drops his hands. He blinks slowly before looking up at Claude. He looks absolutely exhausted. 

“Were you able to find beds for everyone?” 

“Yes,” and it’s worth the trouble that Claude had with several innkeepers to see the relief that makes Lorenz’s shoulders sag. “We’re lucky; almost everyone has some money on them.”

Lorenz grimaces and shakes his head. “Ferdinand did explain that. His father… Well, the reason the former Duke died is he tried to take the treasury with him. Over the people. So Ferdinand said he,” and Lorenz makes air quotes, “redistributed as necessary.” 

Claude sits for a long moment. Lorenz stares at his lap. Claude feels faintly like the wine he’s had is going to come back up. 

“Do you think—”

“I don’t know,” Lorenz whispers, and he sounds like he’s about to cry. “Claude, I hate this. I hate this so much.”

Ferdinand did not commit patricide. 

It is a small mercy that Ferdinand is spared of telling them this. A group of civilians confess to it the following day while Ferdinand is still in a drugged sleep. They aren’t in any condition to be held in the Gloucester dungeons or the town jail, and, technically, only Ferdinand as Duke Aegir has the power to sentence them. As Ferdinand had explicitly written all of them pardons with the Aegir seal, no one has any lawful ability to do anything further. 

“We aren’t sorry,” the most well-spoken of the group, a former apothecary, says, mullish. “We simply do not want the Duke to try to take any further responsibility.” 

Claude visits Ferdinand a couple days later after the healer eases him out of sleep and sends word that he is more stable than before. He finds Ferdinand sitting in the conservatory by the large hearth, a blanket over his legs and a book on his lap. Lorenz is already there, going through the motions of making tea. 

“Claude,” Ferdinand says, and he sounds pleased but also very weak. “I wanted to apologise. I must have given you a fright.” 

“There’s nothing to apologise for,” Claude says, and he reaches out to take Ferdinand’s right hand, squeezing it reassuringly. “I’m just glad to see you.” 

Ferdinand smiles and squeezes back. His hand is cold, but his grip is solid. They let go and Claude sits down on the couch as Lorenz, who is smiling, pours them all Almyran pine tea. They sit and drink for a while, Claude watching Ferdinand by the corner of his eye. Ferdinand watches the rain on the window, more than a little vacantly. 

“You,” Ferdinand says, surprising both Claude and Lorenz by breaking the silence, “don’t have to be so gentle with me. I know I’ve brought trouble onto your doorstep. You will just have to forgive me: I’m feeling rather tired at the moment.”

“Auntie said not to overwork yourself,” Lorenz scolds, and it takes Claude a moment to realise that he means the healer. “We will figure out—”

But Ferdinand is shaking his head, gaze back on Lorenz and very focused. “No,” he says, firm although it makes him sound even more exhausted, “you don’t have that luxury. House Gloucester holds the Bridge, and I am aware that House Riegan is in a difficult place since the heir apparent has not been able to safely passage back to Derdriu. It is known to the Imperial spymasters and therefore Edelgard that Gloucester is in this position. I suspect the only reason you have not had a direct Imperial attack is because they are occupied with Fhirdiad. Did you know the students of the Royal School of Sorcery set themselves, the school, and the east side of the capital on fire? They say the ruse allowed Dimitri to escape.”

Lorenz’s mouth is open, his knuckles white. Claude shakes his head, feeling sick.

“I do not doubt they know I am here, too,” Ferdinand continues, setting his teacup down and not looking at either of them. “I killed Imperial troops. I would like to say it was self-defense, but it wasn’t. I also allowed those under my command to steal property. And I’m sure you met Nathaniel; he usually introduces himself as an apothecary. He was one in Ebarr as well as being my father’s primary informant. Elizabeth, his wife, was a paladin in the Imperial Guard; she taught me how to ride. She was hung for treason a week ago, I think. I’m not sure what she did. I guess it was because they couldn’t find Nathaniel.”

Ferdinand pauses. Blinks. He looks up, apparently realizing he said all of that aloud. He eyes them, seemingly unsure if he should apologise. Or what part he should apologise for first. 

Claude clears his throat. “What do you mean about treason? Since when was Edelgard…” 

He pauses. At a loss. Lorenz leans slowly forward and puts his teacup down. Ferdinand stares at Claude, then at Lorenz, and then back to Claude much like he did on the bridge. 

“Do you,” he says, very awkwardly, “not have informants. In the Empire.”

Lorenz clears his throat. “It is not the policy of House Gloucester to be involved in espionage.” 

“It’s not really an Alliance thing,” Claude says, haltingly. “We are a roundtable of equals. Such practices would undermine our trust for each other. 

Ferdinand stares at them for a long moment before he looks away. At the wall. 

What little colour there was to his skin has fled. 

“Ah,” he says. 

It is somehow more awful for how extraordinarily calm he sounds. He blinks. His eyes do not unfocus. He looks back to Claude and Lorenz as a man before the gallows. 

“Well, then perhaps it is fortuitous that I have come to you. Please, if possible, could you find Nathaniel and tell him to bring the seamstress Isabella to me? She is not a seamstress; she was my mother’s favourite companion and spymaster. We have a lot to tell you.” 

With the proof of his Crest and signet ring, Claude becomes the head of House Riegan.

He assumes this position with the support of House Gloucester and House Goneril. The paperwork his uncle had signed off on to legitimise Claude is legally sound, which House Daphnel and House Ordelia accept. House Edmund only accepts situation because as there is no way to receive approval from the Church as the entire infrastructure has collapsed without an archbishop. 

“It is not optimal,” the Margrave Edmund asserts during the first roundtable that Claude officially presides over, “but we are at war, and an internal power struggle would spell our doom.” 

“That is fair,” Claude says because it is. 

Politics is not something Claude enjoys. In fact, he hates it. He has, however, some talent for it, and he does enjoy planning and arguing so long as it leads somewhere. Count Gloucester is a solid support, and Margrave Edmund, despite his tendency to dissent, is essential in properly shaping Alliance economics. Holst and Judith are as straightforward as they have always been, and Claude is glad to have them both to depend on for defenses.

“It is a different dynamic than the court of Enbarr,” Ferdinand says after Claude shares with him and Lorenz some of the trade issues with Albinea that Margrave Edmund is struggling with.

“How so?” Claude asks.

Ferdinand smiles, warm but amused. He’s regained much of his colour since the long winter, but the healer has privately warned both Lorenz and Claude that his emotional state is likely less stable than Ferdinand works to appear. There isn’t much that can be done about that. Count Gloucester and Claude have accepted Ferdinand’s argument that, with the reality of the Empire as their enemy, they have need of services that only Ferdinand has the appropriate connections to navigate. Claude does not doubt that Ferdinand has his own motivations, but he also knows that Ferdinand takes duty and service seriously. 

“Let us go riding,” he says. 

They end up in a grove of young pine trees gifted to House Riegan nearly two decades ago to commemorate Claude’s birth. Ferdinand dismounts his horse, looking up into the trees. Claude dismounts as well, tucking his hands behind his head.

“Isabella told me that you were born east of the Throat.” 

Claude stops. Ferdinand reaches out. Brushes his gloved hand over a pine branch. His hair, which is becoming long, falls in his eyes. 

“She also told me that the gold chain you wore in your hair is traditional Almyran courting jewelry. Rumours say that, when Dimitri was sighted in Fhirdiad before the School burned, he was wearing an Almyran-made chain.”

He turns. Steeples his fingers in front of himself. He is unarmed. Every word has been soft and mild. 

Claude has never been more frightened in his life. 

“Ferdinand,” Claude starts.

“She told me this morning,” Ferdinand interrupts, softer than before and absolutely terrifying, “a ship set sail from Edmund with a young Duscar man aboard. The cargo is textiles from Albinea for trade in Almyra.” 

Claude’s knees feel weak. He stares at Ferdinand who stares back. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t frown. 

There is no judgement. Only sympathy. 

“I will not pry,” he says, and it is kind and sad and hopeful, “but I think I trust your motivations better now. I remember our conversation by the well.”

Claude swallows. Nods. He shifts to rest his right hand on his horse's flank. He isn’t much of a rider, but there is no way to obtain a wyvern at this point in time. He has not been able to identify a trusted messenger to message his father, and the wyvern riders at Garreg Mach are entirely missing. There are far too many gaps in the Leicester Alliance’s information network that cannot be easily traversed or changed. 

He understands what Ferdinand is tacitly offering. 

“I won’t insult you and ask what your loyalties are,” Claude says, and Ferdinand does smile at that, knowingly wry. “You don’t really strike me as the type for vengeance.” 

Ferdinand’s smile warms. He nods, looking down at his borrowed horse’s mane before meeting Claude’s eyes. 

“I must do right by my people,” he says, and it is almost mild except for how absolute his resolve is. “I myself wish to regain my ancestral home and see Aegir restored. I must give my people back their lives. You need not trust me, but let me assist you in what capacity I am able.”

Claude breathes in. Nods. 

This is war. 

“I accept this,” he says before holding up his hand as Ferdinand’s lips part. “Don’t thank me. You will have to argue this to the rest of the Roundtable, and Lorenz is probably more concerned with your good health than with letting you make war.”

Ferdinand laughs. Shakes his head. He glances over his shoulder back over the path they’d taken. 

“We should head back,” he says, half-humour, half-truth, “before they assume I’ve murdered you.” 

_I don’t think you have it in you,_ Claude wants to say. _And you should be glad for it._

But that would be insulting, even to someone with as little personal pride as Ferdinand. Claude holds his tongue. 

They ride back, thinking of ships in distant harbours.


	5. Chapter 5

**12.**

In the third year of the war, Claude begins to hear rumours.

A whole Imperial battalion and general killed by a single person. An assassin cutting Imperial bellies in their sleep. Imperial supply trains disrupted and contents destroyed. Imperial guards dragged from their tents and their heads sent to Enbarr in chests made of driftwood and broken spears, piled high with bones. 

At first, it sounds like Imperial propaganda meant to stir up resentment of the Imperial populace against the Alliance and remaining Kingdom loyalists. Then the border patrols change and the rumours spread, becoming more fantastic and confusing. Claude holds off for three months before summoning Ferdinand from Gloucester to Derdriu. Lorenz comes with him, looking irritated even as Claude spies them from the western watchtower. 

“Traveling in the heat of summer wreaks havoc on the body,” Lorenz gripes as he enters Claude’s reception room. 

“It is not so bad,” Ferdinand says, clearly trying to calm not just this complaint but others Claude is bound to eventually hear. “Hello, Claude. How are you?”

“Don’t play this off,” Lorenz snaps before he turns his displeased gaze onto Claude. “You should have summoned us two months ago when the issue became obvious and certainly before this bloody heatwave!” 

“Language,” Ferdinand murmurs, faintly disapproving.

Claude resists the urge to douse them both in his pitcher of palid drinking water. He also valiantly resists the good sense to tell them to have out their personal argument and come back later. Instead, he smiles and motions for them to sit, and then stands up and pours them drinking water. It’s not particularly hostly, but Claude doesn’t have time to go fetch anything nicer.

“I will skip the pleasantries then,” he says, and Lorenz glares at him for the jab. “I’m sure you’ve heard the rumours about why Imperial patrols have changed.” 

“Yes,” Ferdinand enthuses, smiling brightly. 

“I knew it,” Lorenz snarls before gulping his water down. 

Claude rolls his eyes. It is very hot. Even he is dressed down as much as he is able, and he misses not the first nor the last time the less stifling clothes of Almyra. Lorenz looks rightly miserable in his traveling clothes and armour. Ferdinand hides his discomfort better, but it also looks like he has foregone his mail. That is what they must have been arguing about on the ride here. 

The door behind Claude opens. He turns in time to see Hilda poking her head in. She grins at them, even as she tosses a rolled batch of paper for Claude to catch. Claude, sensing he isn’t going to be able to have a peaceful meeting anyways, motions for her to come in. Hilda beams, pushing the door shut behind her with her elbow and bounding around Claude’s desk.

“Hey, Ferdinand, Lorenz!” she enthuses as Lorenz and Ferdinand rise and they share cheek kisses in greeting. “You look hot, and not in a cute way. Claude, why haven’t you offered them something to cool to drink?” 

Claude lifts the stack of southern border reports she just chucked at him. The rest of his desk is in a similar state. His lunch tray is currently on the floor because there wasn’t any room for it on his desk or the reception table. Hilda _tsks_.

“I’m supposed to be the lazy one,” she reprimands him before patting both Lorenz and Ferdinand on the cheeks. “Play nice, boys. I’ll be back.” 

Claude, turning his attention briefly skim through the reports, hears Lorenz and Ferdinand both thanking Hilda, who retrieves the water pitcher and the lunch tray. He flips through from the back of the stack, pulling out a report regarding a wildfire in Hrym that appears to have started in Gronder Field and a report from Ordelia that Fell Beasts have seen sighted in the mountains. The latter report matches a letter he had received directly from Lysithea of a Fell Beast appearing on the edge of her family property. 

“You might want to read these,” he says, passing the wildfire report to Lorenz and the Fell Beast report to Ferdinand.

“Ah,” Lorenz says, grimacing as he sees the first line of the report. “Yes, Mother had told me there was smoke in the southwest before we left this morning.” 

Ferdinand is quiet, reading through the report. Claude takes that as a cue to finish his own skimming. Nothing else is of particular urgency aside from the top paper, which is a letter from Holst denoting that the Imperial patrols are not handling the heat well. He reports that one patrol on the far west border of Airmid and Myrddin repeated the same route thrice in two days. He asks permission to remain at the border to collect further information. 

Claude picks up his pen and dips it, scribbling permission for Holst to hold his position. Duke Gloucester had given his permission for Claude to handle Holst’s movements while he is on Gloucester land. Usually, Holst would be able to decide his movements himself, but he’s been under a great deal of stress. The Duke Goneril is in rapidly declining health, and Hilda is currently serving House Riegan as Claude’s retainer. The less tactical decisions with possible political ramifications Holst has to decide for the time being, the better. Hilda and Holst are many things, but neither are gifted politicians. 

“Hm,” Ferdinand says as Claude blows on the ink, “I heard there’s currently a shortage in some materials common in Crest research. Have we confirmed the contents of the supply convoys that have been attacked?” 

“The only one we confirmed was the one that contained the whale blubber and bones because that was destroyed in Charon,” Claude says, offering Holst’s letter to Lorenz to read for information. 

Hilda returns with a pitcher of water and a tray of four cups. She passes the cups around before shoving some papers on the reception table to the side to set the tray with the pitcher atop it down.

“Hilda,” Lorenz says as he passes Holst’s letter to Ferdinand, “how is Duke Goneril?” 

She grimaces. Shrugs. Claude swallows the water in his cup eagerly. It was clearly just pulled up from the well. 

“He won’t survive the winter,” she says because there isn’t any point in trying to hide how rapid the Duke’s decline has been. “He maybe has three months, generously.” 

“I’m sorry,” Lorenz says. 

“Don’t be,” Hilda says, and she smiles a little softer. “He considers himself quite lucky with both me and Holst in good health.” 

Lorenz makes a noise of agreement as Hilda pulls over another chair to sit. Duke Goneril and Holst had taken Hilda’s wounding and year-long recovery after Garreg Mach quite badly. Claude had written to Hilda during that year to ask after her health, but she hadn’t responded in her own hand until nearly fifteen months since Garreg Mach. Her fingers and hands have never completely recovered. They don’t affect her axework, but she doesn’t have the finesse anymore for her handicrafts. 

It is a shame. Claude will never be able to thank her properly for the help she gave him with Dimitri’s handkerchief. But she wouldn’t want his gifts or empty words. 

The only thing he can do is figure out a way to end this accursed war. 

“I wanted to talk about the supply train incidents,” Claude says, setting his cup atop several reports.

“Yes,” Ferdinand says. 

“How do you find anything on there,” Lorenz mutters as Hilda snickers. 

Claude glares at them, but there’s no heat to it. He reaches up, takes out Dimitri’s handkerchief, and presses it against his brow.

“I have my suspicions,” he says, looking to Ferdinand who nods. “But I also don’t want to meddle with whomever this is; the Alliance cannot be tied to the incidents. We’re barely holding Ordelia as it is.”

They are, in fact, only holding Ordelia because of the weird behaviour of Imperial troops at the border. It’s given the Ordelia forces time to heal and receive reinforcements from House Edmund, which is the only Alliance house with any troops currently to spare. Marianne went down with the three hundred, a huge show of faith from Duke Edmund.

“I will keep an eye on it,” Ferdinand says, and his smile is a complex expression with his gaze on the handkerchief. “That’s a very nice piece. Albinean linen?”

“Yes,” Claude says as Hilda eyes him knowingly; he wonders if she’s figured it out, too. “Let’s talk matters of the Bridge before the heat kills us all.”

“Finally,” Lorenz gripes before launching into his report.

In the fourth year of the war, Lorenz breaks his silence. 

Or, more exactly:

“Claude,” Lorenz says, when he comes to Claude in the House Gloucester war room in the middle of the night, “I, too, believe it is possibly Dimitri, but you must sleep. It will do no one any good if you continue to run yourself ragged when he and whoever else is part of his merry band of irregulars clearly do not want to be found.” 

Claude, caught off-guard, takes a moment to recover. 

“Merry band of irregulars?” he repeats, incredulous.

Lorenz sighs explosively and throws up his hands. “Goddess, give me strength,” he says, which approaches blasphemy coming from him. 

Against his own instinct, Claude forces himself to allow Lorenz to drag him from the war room and down to the kitchens. He allows Lorenz to put a cup of awful-smelling herbal tea in his hands and drinks it with less reticence than he wishes to apply. Lorenz has been invaluable since this whole nightmare began. He owes Lorenz some respect for his favourite hobby. 

“Why didn’t he stay in Almyra?” Claude asks after he finishes the tea. “Did he even _get_ to Almyra?” 

Lorenz doesn’t force Claude to have another cup of tea. He sips his own cup, frowning.

“No one has confirmed that?” 

“No,” Claude says, feeling irritated and tired but absolutely wired. “I don’t want to waste our resources, and no one is risking contact with me directly or with any detail. They are not stupid.” 

Lorenz hums, agreeing and understanding at least some of Claude’s frustration. He waves his hand. Not one of his grandiose gestures. 

“I don’t agree with the methods of whomever it is, but you must agree they are effective.”

Claude grimaces. Pinches the bridge of his nose. 

A nightmare. This whole war is one big, long nightmare. 

“If you cannot sleep, let’s do something,” Lorenz says, very kind and rather awkward for it. “How about cards?”

“I’m not in the mood for cards,” Claude sighs. 

They end up going to Ferdinand, who is also awake although dressed under his housecoat in the complicated nightclothes he seems to prefer. His writing desk is covered in some type of lacework that Claude doesn’t recognise, but it looks like he had been lying on the rug next to the hearth rather than sitting at his desk before their arrival. 

“Good evening,” Ferdinand says, brows furrowed as he ushers this into the conservatory. “Is something wrong?”

Ferdinand rushes to get a couple of lamps going, using magic rather than a match. There’s most of a dinner tray still out on the side table. Claude has scarfed down his dinner barely noticing, but he is fairly sure his portion had mashed potatoes, which is the only thing missing from the tray. Lorenz noticed this, too, while Ferdinand tempers the lamps, oblivious.

“None of us can sleep,” Claude says because he knows an argument brewing when he sees it, and he doesn’t have the patience at the moment, “so I was thinking we could do something. Distract ourselves.”

“Oh, that sounds good,” Ferdinand says, smiling brightly as he sets the lamps up to illuminate the middle of the room. “Cards?”

Claude sighs inwardly, feeling the triumph of Lorenz at his side. “Yes, that should work,” he says because they’re one too many for chess.

Against Ferdinand and Lorenz and without cheating, Claude is terrible at cards. They play several rounds pretending with varying degrees of success that everything is perfectly normal. They are not at war. They are in this together. 

Claude shuffles the deck for the sixth round when Lorenz breaks the silence with:

“Would you like me to tell your fortunes?”

Claude shuffles against the air, barely recovering quickly enough to catch the cards from going everywhere. Ferdinand gapes at Lorenz, who frowns at them.

“What?” he says, vaguely offended. “I first went to school for sorcery. Of course I know basic scrying and divination.”

“Ah,” Ferdinand says, still looking like he’s struggling to recalculate his world view.

“Sure,” Claude says, intrigued and setting the cards on the table for Lorenz to take.

“No, not with those,” Lorenz says, already standing up. “Just a moment.” 

He crosses the conservatory and steps out into the hall. Claude sets the cards back in their box. Ferdinand recovers, shaking his head to himself. He leans over to turn the lamps up a little bit higher. 

Lorenz reappears, carrying a shallow green basin and water pitcher. He pushes the door closed with his left foot. He sets the basin, which contains a small drawstring bag, on the table along with the water pitcher. Claude watches as he opens the bag and takes out—

“Hey,” Claude says, very taken aback, “this isn’t simple stuff.”

“I never said it was simple,” Lorenz says as he lays the bones of a bird in the flat bottom of the basin. “My father is quite avid regarding divination. This is a magpie he was given when I was born. When it died, he saved the bones.”

“I had no idea,” Claude says as Ferdinand peers at the bones with great interest. “So how does this work?”

“It’s easier to demonstrate,” Lorenz says, pouring enough water to fill the basin.

He sets the pitcher down. Motions for Ferdinand to lean back. After checking that Claude isn’t leaning into the basin either, Lorenz looks down into the water. He frowns slightly. Concentrating. 

“Open,” he says and snaps his fingers. 

Fire blooms on the surface of the water. It holds its form over the bones. It is an extremely strange sight. Ferdinand and Claude both stand, looking down at the fire on the water and trying to reconcile it with logic. Lorenz places his hands before himself, fingers steepled.

“So,” he says, sounding rather pleased with himself; Claude hates to admit how impressive this is. “I probably can make this work for about ten minutes before I tire. You can ask it questions, and the fire should take the shape of an answer. They’re not always understandable, but they’ve never been wrong before.”

Because Claude is impressed, he is not going to poke holes in that statement. He glances at Ferdinand, who looks somewhere between apprehensive and excited. 

“You can go first.” 

“Thank you,” Ferdinand says and then falls abruptly silent. 

He stares at the fire for a long moment. Brows drawn together. When he speaks, his voice is low, oddly quiet.

“Is my father dead?”

The fire shifts. Makes an axe. Ferdinand nods, what little suspicion there was to him gone. He thinks for a moment before speaking again. 

“Is there hope of salvaging the orchards in Aegir?” 

The fire takes the shape of a fairly non-specific tree. Ferdinand stares at it. Unreadable. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Claude glances at Lorenz, but he’s looking down at the basin. Concentrating. Claude wonders how much Lorenz has had to practice to be able to do this. 

“In Enbarr, is it Edelgard or Hubert whom is responsible for the Fell Beasts?” 

The fire twists into the shape of a dragon. Ferdinand scowls. He shakes his head and looks at Claude as the figure dissipates. 

“Your turn?” he says more than asks. 

Claude nods. Licks his lips.

He has a thousand questions he could ask, but only two have found no other means to answer. He glances at Lorenz, who flicks his eyes to meet his gaze briefly.

“How much longer?”

“Maybe four minutes,” Lorenz says, a little strained.

Claude nods. He doesn’t know how this works at all, but he’s never trained magically aside to know enough to cast Heal. A part of him is glad that he didn’t know that Lorenz could do this earlier. In the beginning of the war, he might have been too eager.

“Is,” Claude starts, and his question has burned in the back of his mind since he watched the gorge crack open, “Professor Byleth alive?”

The fire shifts. Swirls. Ferdinand leans forward. Lorenz grunts, pressing the pads of his fingers together. The fire spreads to the edges of the basin. The flames in the middle of the bowl forms into a dias upon which a throne rests. Around the basin’s rim, broken columns rise up. Claude stares at it, completely taken aback. 

“What?” he says, forgetting himself.

The fire reacts to that, shifting back into the middle of the basin. It forms into two weapons: the Sword of the Creator and a weapon somewhere between a spear and great axe. Claude stares as the fire rises, more detail adding onto both the Sword and the other weapon. It is clearly a Sacred Weapon but not one with which Claude is familiar. 

Lorenz gasps. The fire snuffs out, and Lorenz’s palms slam on the tabletop. Ferdinand lunges around the table to catch him before he falls completely. Claude reaches out instinctively to stop the basin from spilling. 

“Areadbhar,” Lorenz mumbles as Claude rounds the table to help Ferdinand get Lorenz into the conservatory’s chairs.

“Is it?” Ferdinand asks, alarmed. 

“Are you alright?” Claude asks, equally alarmed. 

Lorenz doesn’t respond immediately. His head, resting against the back of the chair, is tilted towards the ceiling. He blinks owlishly. 

“That’s never happened before,” he says, rather dazed. 

Claude rearranges Lorenz’s knees so that his feet are flat against the floor. Ferdinand reaches up and pushes Lorenz’s hair out of his face. This seems to get Lorenz’s attention as he tracks Ferdinand’s fingers as they pass over his eyes. His brow pulls faintly together. He frowns. 

“Why haven’t you dressed that blister?” he asks, disapproving. 

Ferdinand sighs. Half in relief. Half in irritation. He glances down to Claude, expression extremely complicated as he continues pulling Lorenz’s hair from his face. 

“Areadbhar is the Sacred Weapon of House Blaidydd,” he explains. 

Claude sits back on his heels. “Is it,” he says.

“Ferdinand,” Lorenz says, more disapproving.

Ferdinand sighs, more irritated now. “Maybe,” he says, looking at Claude as he begins braiding Lorenz’s hair, “Byleth and Dimitri have met. Or will meet in a place that. It kind of looked like the Holy Tomb in Garreg Mach.” 

Claude frowns. Looks down as he stands up. In the past three years, he has often gone over his interactions with Byleth. Not as much as with Dimitri, who fills Claude’s dreams in a completely different manner, but often enough that he has come to conclude that Byleth, probably unintentionally, is far more tied to the factors leading into the war than he could have realised in the short months at the academy. He was too young and naïve. 

“You don’t,” Claude starts as he crosses over to the unfinished dinner tray and picks up a paring knife and the pear, “think that the professor is dead?”

Ferdinand is still frowning as he extracts one of the ribbons from his complicated nightclothes to tie the tail of Lorenz’s braid. Lorenz watches Claude with half-lidded eyes as he cuts a slice from the pear and peels the skin. He takes the piece when Claude offers it, chewing slowly. 

“I saw the professor do some truly amazing things,” Ferdinand says before shrugging. “I’ll look into it.” 

“Thanks,” Claude says, cutting another slice of pear. 

“I must tell my father about this,” Lorenz mumbles even as he accepts the new slice; he takes a bite and continues talking with his mouth full. “He’ll be so proud of me.” 

“We’re proud of you, too,” Claude says, both truth and also a gentle tease.

“Mhm,” Lorenz murmurs after swallowing.

Ferdinand watches them, clear-eyed and calm. Claude wonders if he is in pain.

He doesn’t ask. It would be unkind.

He hates this war so much.

**13.**

The worst part is how war changes people.

It is, of course, unavoidable. Hilda doesn’t shy away from hard work anymore, her great strength matched only by her gregarious nature. She has occasional flings to occupy herself, even though it causes some unkind gossip among the nobility and clearly worries Holst. Ferdinand is still himself, compassionate, friendly, and a bit silly, but there’s an unevenness. Claude wonders often if he made the right choice in allowing him to become spymaster, but then remembers that he didn’t have a choice. Lorenz has become a worrywart, given to lecturing Claude and Hilda and outright henpecking Ferdinand. It’s not his fault, Claude remembers even when he wants to throw Lorenz out a tower window. Everyone reacts to the stress of war differently. 

Even so, Claude doesn’t like how he himself has changed. He doesn’t like how he has become accustomed to command. How comfortable he is with the authority to send hundreds, sometimes thousands of people into danger. He doesn’t like that sometimes he thinks of troops in the same way he thinks of supply convoys, in terms of costs and benefits and distributions. He hates that he is not instinctively drawn to the front lines, even though he shouldn’t be on the front lines in the first place as an archer. It makes him feel like a coward, barking out orders and relying on messengers. 

He thinks about this a lot. In Almyra, there is nothing worse than cowardice. Claude was born and grew up in Almyra. There are parts of himself that formed to fit into society that he cannot shake, even when he knows how poorly the structure is. 

“Claude,” Hilda says, startling him as she sets down a stack of mail on his desk. “What’s got you in such a tizzy? I thought it was only Ferdie this morning.”

“Don’t let him hear you call him that,” Claude sighs, pointing to the huge stack of missives he already has in his TO SKIM pile. “It depresses him.”

“Aw,” Hilda says, pulling out a scroll with the seal of House Edmund to put on the IMPORTANT pile. “So?”

“Reports that Duke Fraldarius has left the north with troops,” Claude says, picking up the scroll and breaking the deal. “Ferdinand said the Duke himself is carrying cargo.”

“That’s serious,” Hilda agrees, subdued as Claude reads the summary of recent shipments out and in Edmund. “Wasn’t Felix sighted a month ago near Garreg Mach?”

“Yes,” Claude says as he reads further in the scroll regarding the summary of Marianne’s reports from Kupala. “It seems the Margrave Gautier has also been sending messengers south. There’s additionally been reports of wyverns in the mountains again. Not just dirty Pegasi this time—actual wyverns.”

Hilda hums. Claude finishes reading the scroll, which ends on a quote from some theologian, and looks up at her. She stands with her arms crossed, right hand’s fingers drumming on her left bicep.

“Is anyone riding the wyverns?”

Claude nods, setting the scroll on the RESPOND pile. “Yes. They’re all cloaked, so no discernible features.”

“Well,” Hilda says, and she frowns, “we all suspect Garreg Mach is being used as a possible base for the irregular operatives since, like, a year ago. Marianne told me and Lysie that there have been a lot of ships passing up through Sreng from Far East.”

Claude nods. He’s heard the same from Ferdinand and Duke Edmund, the latter of whom had mentioned the ships did not seem to be carrying much cargo as they were traveling quick and high on the water. Sreng has been keeping diplomatically out of the whole war except to occasionally prod Gautier territory as if to keep up appearances. He has suspected that Ferdinand or one of his connections has been in contact with Sylvain over the past two years since very little news regarding the heir of Gautier has circulated. He didn’t know Sylvain had it in him back in their academy days, but Claude also isn’t entirely surprised. 

Hilda eyes him. “Claude,” she says, warningly, “what are you thinking?” 

“Not sure yet,” he says because he needs more information.

He reaches for the mail.

Things fall apart. 

Perhaps that is the worst part of war. Even the best laid plans can go awry, and there is no way to plan for all of the consequences. Much of war is simply attempting to end it as quickly as possible or mitigating the damage. 

Reports of massive Imperial troop movement towards the Bridge forces Claude to call the Alliance to arms. Further reports that a whole battalion of wyvern riders has taken off from Garreg Mach forces Claude to request Lysithea from Ordelia for her black magic. Ordelia sends Lysithea, Raphael, and a company of pegasus riders, who fill out the flanks of the Alliance corps. 

“It’s good to see you,” Claude says as they ride out towards where forces appear to be converging on Gronder Field. 

“Tell me that after we win,” she says, half-smiling. 

Lorenz has to stay behind at the Bridge in case things go south, but Ferdinand joins them from Gloucester with a missive he clearly opened and read ahead of handing it to Claude. True to form, Lorenz dedicates the majority of precious paper to chewing Claude out regarding so-called last minute change in plans before ending on a hysterical:

_And if you die, don’t come crying to me to save your sorry hide!_

“Are you really alright, living with him?” Claude asks as he hands Ferdinand back the missive.

“I find honesty refreshing,” Ferdinand says in a way that should be a joke but is completely serious coming from him. 

Things fall apart.

They arrive to find Imperial forces engaged with platoons and battalions wearing Faerghus colours. The Faerghus troop formations are all wrong. Aside his horse, Claude has a moment of complete cognitive dissonance as he watches infantry in Faerghus colours climbing trees and scrambling up the steep sides of the archery hill. Wyverns swoop in overlapping star formations, flipping with bellies to the sky and riders upside-down. 

It looks like Almyra has come, but the colours are wrong. 

“Claude?” Lysithea says, almost too far away to be heard through the shock. “What is going on?” 

“Hold,” Claude says, and he trusts that the shock has prevented anyone from getting too battle eager. “Ferdinand—”

But Ferdinand is pointing upwards. Claude baulks, jerking his head back to see two wyverns overhead, both with cloaked riders. One begins to descend, reaching up and pulling back their hood—

Gems fracture light in the harsh noon sun.

Dimitri looks down at him. 

“Dima,” Claude chokes. 

He can’t help it. His voice cracks. Dimitri appears half a stranger. His spear gleams in the sun. Blood and gore already coats his light Almyran armour. His gauntlets. The eyepatch over his right eye is made of the same fabric as his arming doublet. Aside his wyvern, he wears only the most necessary plate armour. He looks half fantasy, half nightmare. 

It is Claude’s chain gleaming in his long, braided hair.

_I sent you to where you would be safest,_ Claude wants to roar.

_Why did you hold onto Fódlan’s obsession with duty,_ he wants to wail. 

_You’re stupid and I love you,_ he wants to scream.

“Claude,” Dimitri growls, and he takes a wide stance in the saddle somewhere between proper lancer and something utterly beastly; his wyvern roars. “It is dangerous for you to be here.” 

Claude opens his mouth. 

There is an explosion.

Fire engulfs the archer’s tower. 

The screaming is audible all around the battlefield. Claude realises his mouth is still open. He shuts it. His stomach is empty, but it still wants to escape. He tears his eyes away to see that Dimitri has turned entirely towards the hill. 

“Dimitri!” Byleth’s voice carries above the screams, angry and utterly terrifying for it. “Reposition Flayn off the hill _now_!” 

“Yes, Professor!” Dimitri roars and takes off at full speed towards the hill. 

_No_, Claude wants to cry.

_Wait for me_, he wants to shout. 

But he can’t. He can’t get into the fray. He is the Duke Riegan. The leader of the Roundtable of the Leicester Alliance. He cannot act by himself. For himself. 

He must, above all, work to bring victory with as little casualties as possible. 

He cannot simply follow his heart into the fire. 

“Claude,” Raphael shouts, desperate and so very scared, “what should we do?” 

His mother’s voice: 

_Strike when they are close_

There is no turning back. 

“Our target is Edelgard,” he says.

Everyone makes choices they must live with for the rest of their lives. 

Sometimes even Claude is taken aback by this. 

Raphael stares at him for a moment before he inclines his head. Steels himself.

“Target Imperial forces!” Claude roars with all his might and muster. 

The order spreads.

The battle turns the grass sticky with waste, gore, and corpses. The claws of wyverns. The lost fingers and heads of red and blue and yellow troops mixed together. The archer’s hill burns and spits ash into everything. 

It is not enough. 

Claude catches sight of Ferdinand, in combat at the base of the hill. His great axe cutting through the light armor and torso of an Imperial archer. The look on his face is terrible, a twisted memory of the unhappy desperation five years ago on the Bridge. He probably doesn’t know he looks like that in combat. 

Claude is glad Lorenz isn’t here. 

He watches Dimitri soar over Ferdinand, his wyvern’s clawed feet grasping a burning Petra by the shoulders to get her to safety. He sees Dimitri jump backs from one wyvern to another midair as Lysithea covers a platoon of Imperial troops in purple-black flames. Lysithea does not smile. Does not frown. Her fire devours and leaves behind melted armour and curdled grass. 

Claude watches Failnaught loose an arrow into the chest of a guard who jumps in front of a retreating Edelgard. The chest cavity splits open like butter. 

It is not enough. Edelgard is already too far away, and there are still Imperial troops incoming. Covering their commander. 

Claude raises his voice and shouts his commands as the wyverns roar overhead. 

The day is won.

Gronder Field burns.


	6. Chapter 6

**14.**

In the aftermath, they make camp at House Gloucester. Most of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus and Garreg Mach troops head back to their base at the monastery under the command of Gilbert and Rodrigue. Byleth, Dimitri, and Dedue, the last of whom Claude is shocked to see carrying a longbow and wearing Duscar fabrics, remain to travel with a full corps, favouring battalions of infantry, wyverns, and pegasi that have, upon closer inspection, been dyed to look to the untrained observer not dissimilar to wyverns. 

“How did you get them to cooperate?” Lysithea asks because pegasi are known for their fastidiousness to cleanliness.

“Petra has a knack,” Byleth says, which explains nothing and everything. 

It is an excellent strategy of hiding in plain sight. Claude could kick himself. From the look on Ferdinand’s face as he stares at the pegasi, Claude senses he’ll need to do some emotional damage control sooner rather than later. 

He’s selfishly glad, as he does his rounds to check over his troops, that he did not bring Hilda nor Lorenz with them. They’re too used to challenging his decisions. Claude has no idea what he would have done if either of them challenged him today. 

He will live with today for the rest of his life. 

They have not sustained major losses. With wyverns and pegasi on the front lines, cavalry casualties are greatly reduced. Moral is extraordinarily high. Claude greets multiple beaming battalion commanders, several of which from the far right flank give him enthusiastic reports of no losses. The fourth son of the Viscountess of Kupula is absolutely glowing, all sixteen years of himself overjoyed to have had his maiden battle. 

“Was it like this for you, my lord?” the boy asks, clutching his bow and vibrating with residual adrenaline. 

“Ah,” Claude says, and he smiles in a way he knows most people read as nostalgic but simply hurts. “My maiden battle was a bandit incident. You have exceptionally done well.”

Claude has had to say many such things over the years. For the most part, he has made peace with the half-truths. It has always been his way. No one wants the whole truth, especially regarding him. As Duke Riegan, Claude must look forward. To look back for too long is to sow doubts. Resentments. Regrets. 

He does not live to accumulate regrets. 

When he returns from his inspection, Dimitri and Dedue are speaking with Ferdinand and Lysithea. Byleth rides ahead with the scouts, and Claude realises with a jolt in his gut that the professor probably has the best eyesight of the three. Dedue was good at archery back in their academy days but admitted once when he trained alongside Claude with Shamir that he suffered some light sensitivity. Dimitri had been a good archer, but the eyepatch creates an entire blindspot that would now make him next to useless as a scout. 

Claude’s stomach aches. 

“Hey, Claude,” Lysithea says, catching sight of him first. “How are we?”

Claude puts on a smile as Dimitri, Dedue, and Ferdinand turn their head to look at him. He doesn’t dismount his horse as Ferdinand and Lysithea are both mounted. Dimitri leads his wyvern on the ground, and Dedue doesn’t appear to have a mount. He pulls into pace between Ferdinand and Lysithea and doesn’t allow his expression or bearing to falter. 

“We are as well as may be hoped,” he says, matching the formality of Lysithea’s speech as he adds, “thanks in no small part to the good military sense of the Kingdom forces.” 

Dedue inclines his head, but Dimitri stares at Claude with such intensity that it feels like the battle is still on. Lysithea glances between them, brows drawing slightly together.

“Claude,” Dimitri says. 

He’s still coated in battle gore. Ash marks on his face. The light armour he had worn at the beginning of the battle is gone. He’s down to his gauntlets and blood-stained arming doublet, his lance and sword in his wyvern’s harness. His trousers and boots are fitted for wyvern riding. The left thigh has a tear with blooded flesh. His hair is the only clean part of him.

The chain is longer, Claude sees now. Thicker. The gold is braided, the sapphires larger and more numerous. The clasps lock around a hair ornament of the Almyran Emblem. It is unmistakably his mother’s work. His father must have spent a fortune for the materials. 

They support Claude’s suit. 

“You’re hurt,” Claude says, almost outside of himself. 

Dimitri blinks. Looks down to where Claude’s gaze is upon the wound. He reaches down. Prods it roughly and checks his hand to see how much blood comes away. 

“It’s fine,” he says, and the worst part is that he believes it.

Claude opens his mouth. Closes it. He reaches deep into himself for the will and bearing that the past four horrible years have taught him. 

Some of this must show on his face because Dimitri frowns. Cocks his head. He looks at Claude as if he is a puzzle. 

“You look like your father,” he says as if he isn’t sure he should be intrigued or disconcerted.

“I—” Claude says before his throat closes up. 

He is suddenly extremely aware that they are alone. Lysithea, Ferdinand, and Dedue have all slowed their pace to drop back a full wyvern width. Byleth and the other two scouts are still three horse widths ahead. 

It is not so odd. Claude is the leader of the Leicester Alliance, and Dimitri is the only legitimate claimant to the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus. Due to her inability to recapture Dimitri following what has become known as the Last Stand of the School of Sorcery, Cordelia has never been acknowledged as effectively holding Faerghus. The Roundtable has branded her an enemy of autonomy. The throne, in the eyes of Kingdom loyalists and the Alliance, waits for Dimitri to reclaim it. 

Dimitri looks up at him. Blinking only rarely. His eye is more pupil than blue. 

In his light gear that leaves nothing to the imagination, his hair adorned in Claude’s suit:

Claude wishes nothing more than to dismount his horse and plunder him. 

But they are not actually alone. They travel surrounded by thousands of watching eyes. Claude breathes in. Smells the stink of gore that covers Dimitri. His wyvern. Claude himself to a certain extent. 

From the way Dimitri’s eye widens slightly, something about that action makes him react. He does not falter in his pace, but Claude watches his eye sweep up. Down. His gauntleted hands flex. Tighten. His wyvern steps heavier with the twist on its rein. 

“Let us speak later,” Dimitri says, and his body is already redistributing his weight to guide his wyvern elsewhere.

“Yes,” Claude says with all the composure he does not have, “I will send for you.” 

Dimitri nods. Solemn. He turns. Mounts his wyvern in one fluid motion. They lift off, flying high up. Over Claude’s head. 

Hooves. Footsteps. Ferdinand, Lysithea, and Dedue falling into pace with him again. 

Claude shoves his tongue between his teeth and bites down to stop himself from screaming. 

The Alliance field army splits up at the Bridge. Lysithea and Raphael depart east to make it back to Ordelia by nightfall. Claude sends a messenger and an infantry battalion along with them to thank Count Ordelia and carry the news that further information regarding the war campaign will follow. He knows Lysithea understands the circumstances, but he isn’t sure how Raphael has taken everything. There has been a lot to absorb. 

“Ferdinand,” Claude says as they cross the Bridge into Gloucester Territory, “how are you holding up?”

“Oh,” Ferdinand says. 

He tries to smile reassuringly. The effect is somewhat disastrous. The battle madness Claude witnessed earlier seems to have lingered, lighting his eyes oddly. His smile adds to that unsettling feeling. 

“I admit,” he says, very mildly, “I do feel quite out-maneuvered. We should have caught the ruse with the pegasi.” 

Claude nods, putting all of his effort to hide how cautious he feels. “We couldn’t have figured out that Dimitri would be on wyvern-back, though. Wyvern riding is almost unheard of in Faerghus.” 

“Yes,” Ferdinand agrees, and his shoulders seem to relax a bit. “It does explain some of what I just began to hear from Gautier territory. Apparently, they’ve seen more tallow trade than usual. I suspect it may not have just been tallow but wyvern rations.” 

“Clever,” Claude grimaces. “It would also explain why the Empire has never been able to figure out how the attacks on their patrols happen.”

“Should have looked up,” Ferdinand sighs, shaking his head at himself and the situation at large. 

Claude nods. Above them and slightly towards the left flank, Dimitri and Byleth fly side by side. Probably talking. Dedue walks below them with a battalion of archers, ready to shoot any threats. 

They fall into companionable silence as they head towards House Gloucester. Claude is uncertain of how Lorenz and Hilda are going to react. In some ways, this is why he prefers to have Ferdinand at his side on war campaigns. Claude is aware that his chafing against being Duke Riegan is not lost on them, but only Ferdinand, with his particular character, has lacked in criticism. On the battlefield, it is essential that no one second-guesses his orders. It isn’t just an authority issue. It prevents confusion, the main component of unnecessary casualties. Whatever is wrong with Ferdinand has never seemed to affect his judgement in the thick of things. 

They are greeted at the southwest gate to the Gloucester hold by Count Gloucester. Claude hails him upon sighting his presence with retinue, riding out ahead of the scouts. The Count is not mounted, but his rheumatism hasn’t allowed him to ride for several months now. He nods as Claude dismounts and accepts his hands in greeting. 

“Duke Riegan,” he says, and he looks over Claude, brow unfurrowing when he finds no injuries, “I am glad you return victorious.” 

“Thank you, Count Gloucester,” Claude says, and he inclines his head in a show of humility that the Count knows him better than to take for granted. “We had quite the surprise on the field.” 

“That you did,” the Count says, looking over Claude’s shoulder and then up to the wyverns aloft. “You and I will have much to discuss tomorrow when the rest of the Roundtable arrives. Lorenz has seen to preparing the house.”

“I am relieved to know that everyone has responded so quickly,” Claude says because he is relieved if a little overwhelmed. 

“Hm,” Count Gloucester says and Claude can guess the object of his gaze; when the Count speaks again, it is so low that only Claude may hear it. “I have seen these faces in the bone fire.” 

Claude glances at him. The Count’s gaze meets his. Steady and unrelenting.

“Have you.” 

The Count inclines his head. Very briefly. He look away, expression softening.

“Ferdinand von Aegir,” he says, and Claude steps out of the way as the Count greets their spymaster. “I am glad to see you return victorious. You must tell my son to stop worrying everyone like a cuckoo bird.”

“I tell him all the time,” Ferdinand sighs before accepting the Count’s embrace.

Claude does not glance at the rest of the field army. He has to trust that they will all follow behind them and adhere to the rules of House Gloucester. The Count draws Claude into a verbal debrief of messages that have come thus far. House Edmund is, as usual, the only dissenting voice but will have a presence at the Roundtable scheduled for the next afternoon. The walk into the Gloucester hold is hectic as attendants appear to take Claude and Ferdinand’s outerwear and battle gear, and Ferdinand is called away by a middle-aged woman that Claude only glances at to maintain the facade he doesn’t know what this is really concerning. 

The Count doesn’t share Claude’s need to seem oblivious, his gaze tracking Ferdinand and the woman even as they pass through the doors to the entrance hall. 

“You have irrevocably changed how we conduct the Roundtable, Duke Riegan,” he says, very low as they reach the stairwell that leads to noble quarters.

“You have always been a valued voice, Count Gloucester,” Claude says, not allowing himself to pause or show any of the sudden nervousness that bubbles in his gut. 

The Count gazes at him. For a moment, Claude is not sure if he made the right decision to give over to the attendants all of his weapons, save his mother’s dagger in his boot. 

“You have brought war upon my doorstep,” the Count says, and it is not a criticism nor praise. “I will support the decision of the Duke Riegan for House Gloucester, as the keepers of the Great Bridge of Myrddin, knows well the threat. 

“You must know,” he continues, and Claude is compelled by some force more intuitive than himself to take the Count’s hands, “I am unable to ride. Unable to swing my sword. Should you call upon my House to do battle, I will send my son. My Lorenz. My greatest joy. And I will see our spymaster, whom I have come to view much as I do you, my sons, ride to do battle together while I, an aging politician, sits and waits behind the safety of my walls.

“So, forgive me,” the Count says, and he squeezes Claude’s hands before extracting his fingers and bowing. “I may battle you in the realm of policy, but this old man is simply glad to see you whole.”

He straightens. Turns. 

Claude, at the base of the stairs, watches the Count move towards the Great Hall. His slow, slightly uneven progress. Around him, staff and retinue rush about. Making ready for war. 

The day is won. 

The battle begins. 

**15.**

The guest rooms that Claude lived in while he wintered in House Gloucester have been kept exclusive to him. It is more practical than flattery; Claude has spent equal time between his own territory and here throughout the war. With the number of Imperial pushes against the Bridge and the border in general, Claude sometimes wonders if Count Gloucester gained more than he risked in wintering Claude and, consequently, Ferdinand. 

Claude, for all his tactical genius, realises he has misread the personal motivations of people around him. 

There is nothing he can do to change this. 

Things fall apart. 

This is how he finds himself with Dimitri kneeling in the center of his reception room. Dedue and Byleth stand a pace back. Claude, who had rounded the desk when Dimitri lowered himself, is stuck. Standing. Shock-still. 

Dimitri raises his hands. Palm up. 

_No_, Claude wants to say.

_This isn’t what I wanted_, he wants to scream. 

“I will bring you Edelgard’s head,” he says, and Claude want to shake him, slap him, cover his mouth, but he can’t. “I will see this war ended. I will see your House restored. Please, consider me your weapon. This body is your dagger to carve through the dark.”

_I love you_

“I understand,” Dimitri continues, oblivious to the shrieking of Claude’s heart, “that this is neither the way of Almyra nor the Alliance. You do not have to give an answer now. I ask you, with the last honour you may afford me: please, consider this offer.” 

He rises. Fluid. Turns. 

When Garreg Mach fell, Claude forced himself to turn away. 

He realises now, as he watches Dimitri exit the reception room and close the door behind him, it was not cowardice. It was not courage. He won’t collapse. He won’t give chase. 

In that moment, as with this:

All Claude feels is love. 

It is only after the door is shut that Claude’s legs buckle. He is only saved from hitting the floor by both Dedue and Byleth catching him. He tries to wave them off, but they help him back into his desk chair instead. When their hands leave him, he nearly reaches out. He wishes he could cling to them as Dimitri once did him, dressed in that ill-fitting dancer uniform in the Golden Deer classroom. 

“Claude,” Byleth says, very softly. 

He looks up. Over the desk. Dedue and Byleth both stand at parade rest. Retainer and mentor. Lives given to service. Lives lived to make good of duty. 

Claude wants to shake them all and ask what is wrong with them. 

“It’s been four years,” Claude says instead, and he is horrified to hear how steady the words are.

Dedue nods. Solemn and somehow sad. 

“It took three years to breed the wyverns.” 

Claude opens his mouth. Shuts it. Opens it again. 

“And another year for them to be battle ready and transport them via Sreng.” 

Dedue inclines his head. Byleth steps back with a bow. An excusing. 

“Yes,” he says. 

Claude breathes out. In. He looks down at his desk and the mountains of paperwork. Byleth opens the door. Steps into the hall. Shuts it. 

He feels more than a little bit hysterical, which is a new experience for him. Claude is not usually given to hysteria. He wonders if he should ask for Lorenz, who will know exactly what to do, but he would never live it down. He doesn’t know where Hilda is at the moment. He doesn’t want to bother Ferdinand.

“I, too,” Dedue says, drawing Claude’s gaze back to him, “owe you a debt.”

“What?” Claude says.

Dedue pauses. He lowers his eyes, clearly trying to pull his words together. The hysteria in Claude rises. 

“In Almyra,” Dedue says, still looking down and speaking slowly but steadily, “His Highness found solace in battle. We battled alongside your father, who indulged Dimitri and through his tutelage helped reach him in a way I could not. I believe,” and Dedue lifts his gaze again, smiling slightly, “your father was pleased, and his pleasure in that part of His Highness gave him stability.

“If your father had not acknowledged His Highness in his battle madness, I fear he may have been lost for good.” 

Claude—

“I—”

He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what to do. His brain, his greatest weapon, is running infinite scenarios, but all Claude can think about are useless things. Lysithea’s face, devoid of emotion. Ferdinand’s face, manic and terrible. Edelgard, laughing with Dimitri an age ago in Garreg Mach. Byleth’s feet shifting, the right turning out slightly. 

His parents, when they sent him from Almyra with his mother’s dagger in hand. It was the length of his arm. He was barely more than a babe. He understood why, but still:

“I love him,” Claude says because it is all he can say. 

Dedue inclines his head. Smiles. The scars on his face stretch with it but not unpleasantly. As he raises his head, Claude realises that there is a peacefulness about Dedue he didn’t know at the academy. A warmth that he wasn’t offered. Now:

“Thank you,” Dedue says, an echo of their only exchange when Claude was writing courting poems. “As I am to His Highness, I am to you. Please, consider this offer.”

He bows. Straightens. Claude, from a great distance, feels himself nod. Dedue turns. Crosses the room. He opens the door and steps into the hall. Claude watches the door close behind him. 

It is only after he no longer hears footsteps in the hall or in the servants passage behind his desk, that Claude lifts his hands. He looks at his fingers. At the tremors running them. 

He breathes in. 

Out. 

He will live with today for the rest of his life. 

**16.**

Things fell apart.

Claude finds himself huddled in the light of a single candle in the scullery. The wash basin is cleaned of the dishes and readied with fresh water. The floors have been swept, and the food waste taken to the compost. It is late. The House has gone to bed. The only people who should be awake are the night patrol of the House wall. He is alone. 

Or so he thought.

“Oh.” 

Claude jolts. Looks towards the servants door. Swipes at his face. Nose.

“Ferdinand?” he asks, and he coughs on a sob that’s still working in his chest. “Why… why are you in the servants passage?” 

Ferdinand doesn’t say anything for a moment. He also doesn’t move. Claude fumbles with his trousers, pulling out Dimitri’s handkerchief. He’s crying rather too messily to want to use it. He stuffs it back in his pocket and rubs his eyes and nose again with his sleeves instead. 

“Um,” Ferdinand says, and there’s a very troubled note to his voice. “I… hm. I’m sorry. I’m drunk.” 

“Oh,” Claude says because he really doesn’t have any shred of his usual acumen to know how to react to that. 

Ferdinand lingers a moment more before shuffling out of the servants door. He makes unsteady progress to the cabinets. He opens a couple of the drawers before he pulls out linens. He crosses closer to Claude and holds out the handful. Claude takes them, blowing his nose messily on one as Ferdinand sits down next to him on the bench. He smells strongly of hard liquor. 

“Where,” Claude hiccups, “were you going?” 

“Um,” Ferdinand says, and Claude can see him wringing his hands between his knees. “The cellar…” 

For more liquor. Claude grimaces. He can feel the embarrassment rolling off Ferdinand. He isn’t in a state to deal with it.

They sit like this for a long time. Ferdinand half-slumps against the wall as Claude cries in uneven little spurts. After a while, Ferdinand shuffles himself into more upright position. Claude sighs shakily and blows his nose. 

“Do you,” Ferdinand starts, and he sounds like the alcohol is hitting him harder now, “do this often?” 

“You mean crying in the back kitchen like a jilted scullery maid?” Claude hiccups, unable to check his tongue. “No, I hate it. What about you?” 

Ferdinand doesn’t respond immediately. He’s looking at his house shoes. His hair falls around his shoulders.

“Have you been jilted,” he whispers, very small.

Claude laughs. It’s an ugly sound. He wipes his eyes with the last clean patch of the soiled linen. 

“No,” he says because he’s grieving and upset but not delusional; he blinks, suddenly more aware as he looks back at Ferdinand. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Ferdinand lifts his head enough to turn his gaze to Claude. His eyes don’t focus. His brows draw together in confusion. He’s very drunk. 

“Hm?” 

Claude swallows. Now is not the right time to push the subject. He doesn’t have his wits about him to be delicate with Ferdinand. He doesn’t even have enough wits to understand what is happening to himself. 

“It’s been a long day,” Claude says, and he stands up with the napkins in one hand and offering his free hand to Ferdinand. “We should go to bed. Let me help you.”

He ends up half-carrying Ferdinand back through the main hall. It’s empty now, and the torches snuffed out. It’s quiet and depressing, the only sound their awkward footsteps on the carpet and stone. Claude swipes at his eyes and nose, still too keyed up and distraught. He really wants nothing more than to go to his room and be alone, but he’s also very afraid that if he left Ferdinand in the back kitchen, he’d recover enough to get down to the cellar.

It is as they round the corner towards the library, which is next to the conservatory, that things go wrong.

“…up to me!” Hilda’s voice says, raised and angry. 

Claude stops dead. Ferdinand lifts his head from his careful consideration of his feet. They both look at the library door, which is open with a faint light filtering out. 

“I never said it wasn’t!” Holst responds, and his voice is equally loud and notably slurred; it seems Ferdinand isn’t the only person in their cups. “It’s just—another? Really, Hilda?”

“Goddess, Holst,” Hilda shouts, “lay _off_!”

Ferdinand flinches so hard Claude nearly falls over. He reaches out hurriedly to steady himself, brain suddenly useless as panic starts to take over. 

Silence. 

Claude uses the opening to wrap his arms around Ferdinand and hurry them as quickly as possible back the way they came. Ferdinand is equally eager to get away, although none of his coordination is helpful. They make it back into the main hall before Ferdinand tugs him and they go through a thin door that Claude didn’t know was there. 

“How,” Claude hisses after the door shuts behind them, “often do you use these?”

“Assassins expect nobility in the main rooms,” Ferdinand mumbles as he stumbles, trying to guide Claude in the pitch-dark narrow corridor.

Claude swallows. 

His mother’s words. 

Of course. Of course. 

They come out back in the scullery. Claude sits down on the bench. Ferdinand follows him and slumps half on the floor, half on the bench. He rests his head on his arms and shuts his eyes. 

Claude unfolds a clean napkin. Rests his elbows on his knees. He spreads the napkin over his palms. Presses his face into it. He doesn’t cry. He’s too upset at everything to cry. He listens to his heart hammering in his ears.

The silence is oppressive. 

“Ferdinand.” 

A half-aware noise. Claude wipes his face, feeling somewhere between despairing and frantic. 

“Dimitri asked me to marry him.”

Silence. 

Claude looks over. Ferdinand hasn’t lifted his head or changed position, but his eyes are open so wide it looks painful. 

“Uh,” Ferdinand says. 

He jerks, arms and legs flailing haphazardly. He lurches upright, throws himself at the wash basin, and promptly throws up. Claude stands up, but Ferdinand makes a motion to stay back. Claude is left standing awkwardly as Ferdinand spits and groans. 

“When?” he croaks, rubbing his eyes with one hand and holding himself upright against the basin with the other.

“Tonight,” Claude says, handing Ferdinand the last clean napkin. “I believe he may have also offered fealty to me.” 

“Kingdom etiquette,” Ferdinand coughs, wiping his mouth. 

Claude should have known. In fact, he admits as he goes to the bucket of clean well-water and ladles a mug, he does know. He’s just been too emotional and distressed to acknowledge it. 

“Ferdinand,” Claude says as he watches Ferdinand lean on the basin with his eyes screwed shut, “what do you want when the war is over?” 

Ferdinand cracks his eyes open. Claude offers him the mug. Helps Ferdinand drink a couple of mouthfuls. He stands back as Ferdinand leans against the side of the basin. Shoulders bunched up around his ears and into his hair. 

“I want to go home,” he says, small and hurt and aching. “But I know home is not there. It burned. And I…” 

He shrugs. A jerk of a motion. Claude sets the cup down on the bench. Ferdinand lets go of the basin. They both sink down to sit on the floor. Shoulder to shoulder. Ferdinand rests his head between his knees. Claude stares up at the ceiling. 

The weak light of the evening candle makes shadows out of everything. 

“Claude,” and Ferdinand’s voice is tiny and muffled but Claude will hear it for the rest of his days, “do you wish to wed Dimitri?” 

Claude closes his eyes. Opens them. He draws his knees up against his chest. Clenches his hands against his chest. His heart. The handkerchief that he has worn and used and carried for all these years. 

“Yes,” he says because it’s true. 

There is nothing else he wants. Nothing else he craves. Dimitri is the only person, only being, only existence he has ever craved outside of himself. He would not have gone to war otherwise. He would not have changed. 

But towards Dimitri—

“Then,” Ferdinand says, and when Claude looks at him, he smiles, small and wobbly and bright, “I want to see you wed when this war is over.” 

Tears. Claude breathes in. Hiccups. He wipes his eyes. Sobs. 

“Thank you,” he whispers as Ferdinand breathes out a soft, warm laugh. “Thank you so much.” 

Claude promised Dimitri they would not change towards each other, and Claude, for all that he is:

He keeps his promises.


	7. Chapter 7

**17.**

The Roundtable is not a disaster.

A part of Claude, as he shovels the late dinner following the six-hour long meeting into his mouth, realises he was expecting a fight. Instead, he found his most vocal ally in the Margrave Edmund, who said, after Claude’s opening statement calling for support on the war campaign: 

“This is not simply war-making: it is a war in the eyes of the Goddess.” 

Claude is not entirely sure he was able to hide his shock, but this had been a shocking statement to everyone. He couldn’t see what Count Gloucester, who was sitting to his direct left, and Ferdinand, who was standing at parade rest behind them, looked like, but Holst’s mouth fell open and remained open for several seconds before he remembered himself and snapped it shut. The Countess Ordelia, whose attendance had surprised Claude, stopped writing entirely. A drop of ink fell on her parchment. She didn’t notice. 

Dimitri, Dedue, and Byleth, who sat in the guest seats at the table, didn’t react as obviously, but Byleth blinked hard as Dimitri lifted his head from the roll of parchment he’d been provided of the seating arrangements. Claude guessed someone had written cheat notes regarding the basic stances of the Roundtable participants on it as well. He mentally flipped through all of the different theological treatises he’d been subjected to over the past four years in a panicked attempt to ascertain the Margarave’s angle.

“That,” Count Gloucester said as the pause started to stretch, “is a personal declaration of war coming from you, Margrave.”

“We have never confirmed the death of the Archbishop Rhea,” the Margrave said, and for some reason this made Dimitri give the Margrave his full attention, “and that has left the spiritual soul of Fódlan vacant, creating a vacuum for evildoers and evil deeds. The Holy Kingdom of Faerghus and the sanctity of Garreg Mach have suffered four long years of desecration. It is our duty, as children of the Goddess, as holders of the Crest bloodlines, to bring Her justice.”

There was no use in arguing with that. Claude isn’t sure how the rest of the table took it. Holst took a few minutes to jump into how Goneril would participate in next steps, and Dimitri kept staring at the Margrave when he wasn’t answering questions regarding Kingdom forces, but the Margrave’s support paved a smooth way overall to mutual resource commitment. It is better than Claude could have hoped, if rather disturbing. 

At the late dinner, the Margrave sits with the Countess Ordelia and Count Gloucester, discussing of all things summer squash planting. Holst, clearly suffering as the Duke Goneril, has a glazed look to his eyes. Dimitri, Dedue and Byleth have already left, aiming to arrive back at Garreg Mach before the next morning. There was no time for extensive farewells or pleasantries. Claude exchanged reserved, courtly hand clasps with Dedue, Byleth, and Dimitri in that order and bid them a safe journey. 

“Until we meet again,” he said as Dimitri stared at him. 

“Good hunting,” Dimitri said after an awkward pause.

Claude watched him and Byleth take to the sky, wyvern and pegasi battalions beating aloft. Watched Dedue leading the ground troops north-west. 

He wanted to run to the top of the Gloucester hold’s observation tower and scream his frustration at the sky. 

Instead, he turned and went to join the feast to commemorate the official opening of the Leicester war campaign. 

Claude is thankfully not expected to entertain the Roundtable with the excuse that he had just been to battle and little time to rest. He does, however, make his rounds among the troops crammed into the great hall and then shows himself in the Gloucester infirmary. By the time he takes his seat at the high table, night has fallen and everyone is tucking into food and wine. He is extraordinarily hungry and devours his serving of larded beef in the Gloucester style. He sits slightly closer to Lorenz, Ferdinand, and Hilda than the rest of the Roundtable due to the fact Lord Daphnel had suffered a headache and has gone to bed. Everyone is kind enough to refrain from engaging Claude in conversation, and they do not make any comment regarding his urgent annihilation of his plate. 

“I would have liked to sit in today,” Lorenz says as Claude hurriedly shoves a piece of carrot into his mouth, “but we were not at all prepared for that many wyverns and pegasi. We’ve cleaned out our stables, and I’m hoping the feed delivery from town arrives late tonight. I’m shocked they got along so well.”

“The professor told me most were raised together,” Hilda says, smiling broadly as Claude picks up the gravy boat and pours a bit over his potatoes. “Really, it’s very clever.”

“It is,” Lorenz agrees as Claude puts the boat back down. “I wonder how the greenhouse back at Garreg Mach is doing. I would assume they’ve started planting again with all the natural fertilizer.” 

Ferdinand, who had been unenthusiastically cutting into his serving of beef, turns faintly off-colour. Claude, too hungry to consider the content of the conversation, shovels two roast finger potatoes into his mouth. 

“Claude,” Lorenz says, wrinkling his nose, “you’re going to get a stomach ache like that.” 

“He’s hungry, Lo’!” Hilda says, her smile amused. “What I’m interested in is where Dimitri got that gorgeous chain. _Definitely_ Almyran.”

“Well, obviously,” Lorenz huffs. 

“It’s brilliant!” Hilda enthuses with a dreamy sigh. “The stonework on those sapphires—_ah!_ Makes my heart sing! I would snog anyone who gave me something like that in a heartbeat.”

Claude is very glad his mouth is so full because he is able to hide his reaction. Ferdinand is not so lucky. His knife scrapes on his plate, drawing both Hilda and Lorenz’s attention to him. 

“Ooh,” Hilda breathes, and she throws her arms around Ferdinand’s bunching shoulders with a wide-eyed grin, “I bet you know! Tell me, darling, I’m good at keeping secrets.”

“Darling?” Ferdinand echoes, very weakly.

“Leave him be, Hilda; this isn’t dinner conversation,” Lorenz says, reaching over to lift her away and glaring at Ferdinand. “Ferdinand, don’t play with your food. Eat your dinner.” 

Claude finally manages to swallow his mouthful of potatoes. Ferdinand, although free of Hilda’s playful closeness, continues to attempt to make himself as small as possible. Hilda wiggles out of Lorenz’s hold before poking him in the gut none too gently. 

“Ow!” 

“Just because you’re my friend doesn’t give you an excuse to manhandle a lady!” Hilda scolds. 

“Hilda, Lorenz,” Claude sighs because they’re starting to attract attention from the rest of the high table; Holst looks almost relieved. “Let’s not—”

“I’m not manhandling you,” Lorenz says, absolutely not low enough to escape notice. “That hurt!”

Ferdinand shoves his bite of beef into his mouth before very carefully scooting himself out of easy reach. If this had been two years ago, he would have stood on that sense of noble duty to intervene. Now, he just attempts to plod through his dinner with a minor semblance of autonomy. 

Claude, feeling an unusual spike of irritation, closes his eyes. Attempts to count to ten. 

He thinks about the Almryan Emblem in Dimitri’s hair. 

“Lorenz,” Count Gloucester says, his voice raised and damning.

Claude opens his eyes. Both Hilda and Lorenz are looking up at their respective elders on the high table, faintly contrite. Ferdinand has extracted himself along with a large chunk of table bread and is making his way through a servant door. The high table attendant has simply stood aside to allow him through; she does not appear surprised. Claude looks up at the high table to see Count Gloucester glaring at Lorenz, Holst looking tiredly at Hilda, and the rest appearing faintly amused. 

“My apologies for my son’s behaviour, Hilda,” the Count bites out before turning to Holst, clearly apologising again in a much lower tone. 

“Hah,” Hilda says, watching her brother attempting to figure out the right way to accept the apology with glee. 

Claude shoves the last of his beef into his mouth and does not groan. 

**18.**

The next morning after a fitful sleep plagued by dreams in which Dimitri descends from the sky as Claude looses an arrow, Claude goes running. 

He doesn’t often do this. Claude’s physical stamina is quite good, but he spends most of his time out of the sparring ring on horseback. Endurance is tantamount; speed on foot is less so. It feels good, though, to run in the mild early morning, especially in the security of the Gloucester hold. 

He isn’t alone for long. Someone must have recognised him and alerted the patrol. By his third lap, Claude spots Hilda coming out the northern exit, looking faintly alarmed.

“Claude!” she calls, hurrying to catch up with him. “You should have told someone!” 

“I did,” Claude huffs as she falls into pace with him. 

“Claude,” she rolls her eyes, exasperated. 

They go around together two more times before Claude is too winded to keep on. They stop by the stables where the staff are already in full-swing, reorganising to handle pegasi and wyverns when the first of the promised reinforcements arrive from Garreg Mach in the afternoon. Claude talks to the stablemaster while Hilda inspects one of the temporary pegasi holds. 

“You’ll be pleased to know that I trained as a wyvern rider in my youth,” the stablemaster assures them, “so I have practical knowledge for how to handle their good health. I had heard the Prince Dimitri rides a personal mount? Should a pen be kept exclusive?” 

“You’re right,” Claude says, ignoring whatever look Hilda is throwing him. “Dimitri does ride wyvern back, but I do not believe his mount will require a separate pen. The wyverns are of Almyran stock and are generally communal unless in heat.” 

“I didn’t know you were so well-informed about wyverns,” Hilda observes as they walk back into the hold through the main doors. 

“I was interested in them as a child,” Claude says because that is the closest to the truth he can get in public. 

Hilda laughs but then abruptly sobers. She doesn’t slow her pace, so Claude keeps up with her as he raises his eyebrows.

“Claude,” Hilda says, very softly, “I need to talk to you.”

“Oh,” Claude says, and he wipes his face of sweat hastily with his shirtsleeves. “Yes.”

They go to Claude’s rooms. There already are new reports piling up on his desk. The breakfast tray is on the reception table, set for one. Claude grabs a cup he usually keeps for an evening glass of strong wine from the mantle, checks that it is empty, and pours his coffee into it. He pours a second cup and offers it to Hilda, who takes it as she sits down on the couch. Claude sits in one of the armchairs.

“Thank you for waiting,” he says.

“Oh, don’t,” Hilda sighs, shaking her head; she looks sincerely sad. “I miss how carefree you used to be, Claude.”

Claude pauses. He leans forward the sets his coffee cup down. Hilda does the same, leaning her elbows and forearms on her knees. 

“You and my brother,” she says, looking at the breakfast with such sorrow it could wilt. “I know it is necessary, but…” 

She sighs. Shakes her head. When she lifts her gaze, there is a light in her eyes that Claude recognises. 

It is how she looked at Dimitri’s handkerchief. 

“I’m worried about Ferdinand and Lorenz.” 

Claude breathes out. He sits back in the chair, nodding. Hilda blinks. Breathes out in relief. 

“So you have noticed,” she murmurs, which hurts a bit; Claude hadn’t thought he had seemed so aloof. “Lorenz is much worse recently. That show at dinner…” 

“Lorenz is worrying himself into an early grave,” Claude says, relieved to be able to say it aloud. “And with both his parents’ health declining, he’s even worse.” 

Hilda nods. She looks away. At the breakfast tray. Claude knows he must eat it eventually, but he isn’t sure if he has the stomach. 

“He has noticed you take Ferdinand on major campaigns over him,” she says, very softly. “He’s not jealous—you know, Lorenz isn’t that keen on seeing death—but I think his self-esteem has become very fragile.” 

Claude sighs heavily. “I’ve noticed,” he says, and he allows himself to look at the breakfast tray, too. “Recently, I just… cannot have him arguing needlessly with me. I know he does it out of concern and his input is essential on matters of magic use, but if the situation is critical, he does not know how to prioritise, and that sows confusion. Ferdinand only questions if I’ve made an error in judgement.” 

“Is that why you don’t take me often?” Hilda asks.

Claude looks up quickly, mouth opening. Hilda’s lips are slightly quirked, and she chuckles as Claude stills the protest on his tongue.

“Trust me, if I wanted to go, you would know,” she grins before falling back into a troubled expression. “Ferdinand is…” 

Claude sighs again. He reaches out and turns his coffee cup. Clockwise. Counter.

“Sometimes,” he says as he watches the light sheen of oil on the surface swirl, “I know I am asking too much of him, but there’s no one else who can do his job half as well as he is able. I could tell him that until I’m blue in the face, but he doesn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t want anything I can give him.” 

Hilda makes a soft noise. Claude looks up. She is looking at Claude’s hands on his coffee cup, a very faraway expression in her eyes and the set of her lips. Claude doesn’t know what she sees. 

“Lorenz started the kitchens making dishes from the eastern part of the Empire,” Hilda says after a long moment. “I’m not sure if you heard about that argument.” 

Claude blinks, mentally running through all the meals he’s had while in Gloucester. All had been in Gloucester style to Claude’s knowledge, although he would readily admit he hasn’t been paying extensive attention for the past six or so months. None of them were obviously in Enbarr styles. The only thing he can think of in Enbarr style was some of the table bread.

“I didn’t know,” Claude says, a little awkwardly. “Was I in Derdriu?” 

“Probably,” Hilda says, and she frowns as she looks to him. “I wasn’t here either, but Lorenz wrote me about it. Rather a lot of details but they argued about a great deal more than just the food. Lorenz took offense that Ferdinand doesn’t view this House as his home, and Ferdinand went off about how he is attempting to reclaim Aegir. Nothing anyone doesn’t already know, but Lorenz feels like Ferdinand is working himself to death, and Ferdinand took offense at the accusation. I had hoped maybe Ferdinand had spoken to you?”

Claude opens his mouth to point out that Ferdinand is not given to unnecessary complaints before he shuts his mouth. Frowns. He backtracks mentally. Gives into the instinct to press his fingertips to his brow.

“I know that when I asked him to send an eye to the Throat three months ago, he took longer to respond than usual, but he said he’d gone himself,” Claude recalls, glancing at Hilda to see her nodding. “I had thought it was a little unusual, but he also brought detailed news of Almyra, and we got distracted.”

They had also, Claude remembers with an internal wince, gone drinking together at a tavern Claude enjoys perhaps a little too much while he’s in Derdriu. Out of his formal court wear, Claude is easily missed in a crowd at the capital, and Ferdinand has learned his way around being discrete. They’d had a lot to drink. Claude hadn’t thought anything of it at the time. 

Something of this memory must show on his face because Hilda frown at him. Not judgemental exactly but certainly a less flattering estimation of Claude’s comportment. 

“He seemed to be in good spirits,” Claude says, very weakly. 

“Claude,” Hilda says, very sadly. 

Claude sighs. He realises that he has done this a lot during the conversation. Hilda gets up. Leans down. She wraps her arms around his shoulders. 

He reaches up. Wraps his arms around her back. 

For a long time, they stay like this.

Claude lets go first. Slow and settling his arms back on the table. Hilda stands up straight, drawing her arms away. She looks down at him for a moment. Her lips twitch.

“What hole have you thought yourself into, King Nincompoop?”

A laugh. Claude shakes his head. She reaches out and pats the crown of his head. Her smile is small and a little sad. 

“Hilda,” Claude says because he has to know, “what do you want when the war is over?” 

She draws her hand back. Breathes in. Out. The smile doesn’t fade, but it is sadder than before. Somewhat nostalgic. 

“I want to find someone to share my life with,” she says, and Claude thinks of her flings, of the unkind words people throw around, of her and Holst fighting two nights before, “and I want to have all the time in the world to enjoy them. Be lazy, you know? Like I’ve always wanted.”

Claude swallows.

_I’m sorry all this happened,_ he wants to say.

_I wish we didn’t have to change,_ he wants to cry. 

“I want that for you, too,” he says because he does.

Hilda shakes her head. She steps back, her smile wider. No less sad but somehow more at peace. 

“Don’t work yourself to death, Claude,” she says, playful but not a joke. “And tell someone if you’re going to go running again, okay?” 

“Okay,” Claude says as Hilda crosses to the door. “Thank you, Hilda. I’ll try to think of something. For all of us.” 

“That will be all,” she says, teasingly before letting herself into the hall and closing the door. 

Claude sits for a long moment. Breathes in. Out. 

Things fell apart. 

He shifts around. Picks up the new stack of missives, reports, and ledger notes. He sets them in front of himself before starting on his breakfast tray. 

There is already two major missives, one from the Margrave Edmund and the other from House Ordelia. Claude looks between the two sealed parchments as he chews a mouthful of bread before breaking the seal on the Ordelia scroll first. Lysithea’s neat cursive fills him in on her and Raphael’s safe and uneventful return to the territory. Claude finishes his breakfast, reviewing her analysis of troop usage and marking it to share with Count Gloucester and Lorenz.

Claude cracks the seal on Margrave Edmund’s scroll. It begins, as he feared, with a full hand and a half width theological introduction. Claude skims it, dreading writing a response. The body of the report reviews House Edmund’s available resources for the war campaign and the reassessment of trade with Sreng and Albinea. The conclusion is, however, a surprise:

_Please instruct to where Marianne and troop supplements should be sent. I hope she may join within loyal Alliance territory, and I will send a trusted secondary commander should the troops need to be split._

Claude sits for a long moment. He sets the parchment down. Reaches into his trouser’s pocket. He unfolds Dimitri’s handkerchief, tilts his head back against his chair, and lays the linen over his face. 

He imagines he still smells roses. 

He does not scream. 

**19.**

The day dissolves. 

Claude is glad he went for a run in the morning because he barely leaves his reception room except to go to the lavatory and once to the library to pick up a couple of theological books. He wonders, as he carries the books back to his room, where Lorenz is. Usually he can expect Lorenz by twice a day when he is at the Gloucester hold and at least once to share a meal, but it is unusually busy. They are, after all, now officially at war with the Adrestian Empire. 

In the late afternoon, Claude officially runs out a room on his desk and a second table is brought in so he can continue working. His fingers are stained black with ink, and there are moments where his mind wanders away only for him to return and find the report completed. Just prior to dinnertime, Claude lies down on the carpet by the hearth and lays a piece of scrap parchment over his face. He stays like this, thinking deliberately of nothing, until he hears the knock with the dinner tray. He lets himself count to ten before sitting up, tossing the paper into the fire, and calling: 

“Enter!”

A pause. Longer than necessary. Claude stills. 

_Assassins expect nobility in the main rooms._

The door cracks open. A black-toed, scuffed boot. Claude is on his feet, hand in his boot, pulling the dagger—

Dimitri holds the door open with his foot as he balances the dinner tray and wine carafe inexpertly. His eye goes wide at Claude, who is frozen half-crouched with the dagger poised to throw. For a moment, time stops. 

“Claude?”

Dimitri recovers first. He steps in the doorway, holding the tray in front of himself like a very awkward shield. Like he would let Claude strike him through his thin riding clothes. He isn’t even wearing an arming doublet. Only his gauntlets are still there, and they would be useless because his hands are occupied keeping up the tray.

“Did I startle you?”

“Your—” Claude’s voice cracks; he coughs; lowers the dagger; drops it; he can feel his hands shaking. “Your shoe.”

Dimitri’s brow furrows. He looks down and then hastily has to right the tray, which tilted with the movement. 

“What?” 

“It,” Claude says, and he steps forward feeling like he’s been hit by Thoron. “Your shoe is dirty. I thought…” 

He can’t finish. He takes the wine carafe from the tray. Sets it on the tiny side table that he usually puts his evening lamp on for reading. Dimitri looks around for a surface to put the dinner tray. There isn’t one. 

“Here,” Claude says, pointing to the carpet by the hearth and realising his mother’s dagger is lying there. “Ah.”

He picks it up. Makes to put it back in his boot. Stops. Stares at it. 

“Dima,” he hears himself say. 

A shifting. Claude looks up. To the side. 

Dimitri looks at the dagger. Him. The way he looks: 

It makes Claude feel at peace. 

He leans down. Sets the tray on the carpet. 

Claude reaches out. 

The kiss is hard. Rough. More teeth than lips or tongue. Dimitri wraps his arms around Claude’s waist, and Claude realises that he’s grown substantially taller. Broader. He wraps his left arm around Dimitri’s right shoulder. Grips his fingers in his hair. The chain.

He clutches his mother’s dagger in his right hand as Dimitri slips from his lips. Makes messy kisses and scrapes his teeth along Claude’s right cheek, stubble, jaw, neck. He noses Claude’s pulse. The sensitive flesh available over his doublet’s collar.

“Dima,” Claude says.

He lifts his head. Looks to Claude. The shadows beneath his eyes and in his cheeks are more pronounced this close. He looks as exhausted as Claude feels. 

Something in Claude opens.

“Here,” he says, and it is like they are students again, silly and young and fumbling; “Come here.”

Dimitri shifts. Like he’s moving beneath a great weight. Claude shifts their feet. Their bodies. They make slow, hypnotic progress to the couch. 

Claude reaches out. Dimitri slots himself into the free space of Claude’s body. He crawls into Claude’s lap. Claude tucks his left arm around Dimitri’s shoulder again, hand against his head. The texture of his braided hair and the gold of the chain cupped in his fingers and palm.

He smells like sweat and wyvern. His hair of rose oil. 

“Dima,” Claude murmurs as Dimitri settles their bodies together. 

“No one else calls me that,” Dimitri mumbles, wonders; he feels warm and heavy and harsh and very real. “No one else alive or dead.” 

“Of course not,” Claude breathes.

He brings his right hand close. Tilts the dagger so the hilt faces Dimitri’s right palm. For a moment, Dimitri stares down. Between them. The silver reflects his eye. Blue and blown and wide. 

Claude feels like his heart has escaped. Dimitri closes his fist around the hilt. Claude’s hand. Callused and so strong and _here_

“Dima,” Claude whispers, screams, cries:

“I love you.”


	8. Chapter 8

**20.**

Lorenz, Hilda, and Ferdinand are responsible for this. Lorenz apparently arranged for the stablemaster to prepare for Dimitri specifically, and Ferdinand greeted him outside of the hold in the early afternoon. Hilda had been in charge of keeping an eye on Claude. 

“Byleth planned this with them while the Roundtable ran late,” Dimitri explains as Claude’s brain returns. “I… only found out this morning when Dedue told me I needed to be along.” 

“Mhm,” Claude says, still staring at Dimitri’s hand around the dagger’s hilt. 

Dimitri smiles. Reaches up with his free hand. Runs his fingers through Claude’s hair. This close, Claude can see that his smile seems weak. Not because he doesn’t mean it. Rather because he does. He doesn’t have a face that seems to smile often. His eye flickers, roving over Claude’s face. Searching. 

“Ferdinand spoke to me,” he says, a note of hope in his voice.

“I do want to marry you,” Claude says.

Dimitri’s smile widens. His fingers shift around Claude’s, pulling his hand and the dagger over his heart. Claude can feel it beating through the thin riding jerkin. There is an odd light to his eye. Bright and toothy and more than a little dangerous.

Claude feels at peace. 

“A world where we do not change towards each other,” Dimitri whispers as Claude leans up, crushing their hands and the dagger between them: 

“I want to see it.” 

_I will show you,_ Claude vows as he catches Dimitri’s lip between his teeth. 

_I will make war for you,_ he promises as Dimitri growls and pushes himself between Claude’s thighs. 

“I love you,” Dimitri says, and his lip is bleeding; Claude can taste it; the dagger is cutting their clothes; their bodies—

“Yes,” Claude says. “_Yes._”

**...**

Years ago, not long before his parents sent him west of the Throat, Claude sat on his father’s knee and watched his mother sorting gemstones. He held the dagger she had gifted him that morning for his birthday and admired the way the light from the evening candle danced off the gems. The blade. 

“One day,” his mother murmured as his father and Claude listened, “war will come. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe in fifty years. But one day, it will come. Your friends will be your enemies. Your family and lovers will become hostages. No god is going to appear to save you.”

She picked up a sapphire. Held it up to the light. The fire fractured so brightly, Claude had to close his eyes. 

“There are terrible things in this world, Claude. Do not let them stop you following your heart.”

**21.**

That night in the Gloucester hold becomes Claude’s everything. 

Dimitri left him aching but in a way that he had spent five years awaiting. Maybe longer, if Claude is honest with himself. He doesn’t try to pretend it was wise. If it wasn’t for the ingenuity and utter kindness of the people around them, they wouldn’t have had that. Just to look the other way as Dimitri carried Claude to bed:

There is no way Claude can repay them that gift. 

The fact of the matter is there is very little time for such indulgences. Dimitri flies before daylight, Claude’s dagger in his black-streaked boot. Lorenz comes instead of the regular morning attendant with the fresh wash basin and extra towels and a few specific ointments. He doesn’t criticise Claude or even reprimand him. Claude accepts Lorenz advice about the ointment and makes apologies for the bedclothes and reception room carpet. 

“Spare me the details,” Lorenz says, blushing so bright he’s almost the colour of his hair. “I’m sorry, it’s like hearing about a, a couple of my siblings or something. Please, I’ll take care of it. Just… drink you tea. You’re probably dehydrated.” 

He is dehydrated, but that isn’t the point.

There are things that go to war. Things that do not. And then there are parts that are there and yet not, blessed or cursed to become spectres. For Claude: 

This is how the war comes.

Claude wakes up one morning to a red sunrise. 

The bulk of the Alliance’s field army is just south-west of Gronder Field on the border of former Aegir territory. They camped by the rough foliage that has grown wild in the area, much of it bramble-like and unkind to travelers. Claude pushes himself from his roll and out of his tent, feeling a sense of unease. 

He makes morning rounds. Dimitri and Kingdom forces have not yet sent a messenger, but it is early. They are traveling through the heart of Bergliez territory, acting as the primary advancing force and decoy so that Claude and Alliance forces may act as reinforcements as they get closer to Enbarr. Everything appears to be in order aside from a split pot of porridge. Claude lingers by the mess for a moment, finishing his morning coffee, when he spots Ferdinand’s horse wandering by, unattended.

Claude stares for a long moment. A few other people working on their breakfasts also stare at it. Claude puts his coffee mug down just as a squire appears, looking quite upset. 

“Come back!” she cries as the horse continues on its merry way to inspect the bramble. “Oh, no, please, come back!”

Claude breathes out. Almost sits down. Instead, he turns and makes his way to where Ferdinand pitched his tent the night before. He finds Ferdinand sitting on a rock and bent forward over a bucket. His shirt is off, and he appears to be in the process of washing his hair. 

“Ferdinand!” Claude calls, which doesn’t startle him; he heard Claude’s footsteps. “Did you know your horse is loose?”

“Yes,” Ferdinand says, still bent forward and dousing his hair with handfuls of water to get the soap out. “She’s just looking for berries. I thought Isabelle was with her?” 

“Ah,” Claude says, at a loss. “Your squire? Yes.” 

Ferdinand bunches his hair together and wrings it out. He glances at Claude between his right arm and shoulder. There’s faint shadows beneath his eyes, but Claude isn’t sure if he remembers Ferdinand without them. He is aware he looks much the same. 

“Squiring is about gaining confidence as much as it is learning skill,” Ferdinand says as he drops his right arm to reach for his hair brush. 

Claude steps forward. Picks up the brush. Ferdinand blinks but straightens to allow Claude to begin the process of brushing out his hair. At this angle, Claude has a good view of the arrow wounds from four years ago. There are also several old scars on Ferdinand’s right shoulder. They have warped and turned white with age. 

Claude has, unfortunately, paused in his work. Claude looks up to find Ferdinand looking at him. His expression is calm. Complicated. Claude stands with his hairbrush in one hand and his hair in the other. 

“I—” Claude starts.

But Ferdinand raises his left hand. Smiles. His eyes are sad, but the expression is sincere. 

Claude shuts his mouth. Moves the brush. It slips easily through Ferdinand’s hair. 

“I think,” Ferdinand says as Claude shifts to work on the back of his head, “spending time at Garreg Mach and then in the Alliance, I have gained valuable perspective on what it means to be noble.”

“Oh?” Claude asks, untangling a bunching of hair at the base of his neck. 

“Hm,” Ferdinand intones; he taps his right fingers over his thigh. “I thought, once I returned here, I would… find peace, I guess. Closure. But instead—”

He motions. A small, encompassing gesture. The bramble. The war party. Claude. Himself.

“I find myself thinking about my father. How I loved him. How I despised him. How I couldn’t stand how he adored power and wealth over what was right in front of him. And then I think about Edelgard and Hubert and… and Bernadetta, who I might have married—can you imagine that? How terrible for her. For both of us! And then I know a little bit how they must have felt, and I can’t help but wonder—

“Did we have to turn out like this? Do we have to kill each other? Did Hubert have to set my home on fire, and did Nathaniel have to kill my father, and did I have to see the deeds through, and how do I live with the knowledge that upon returning to where should be my home, I feel nothing? Not even nostalgia. Instead, I’m sitting here with the Duke Riegan doing my hair, shirtless in a war camp, and all I can think is: 

“I can’t wait for the war to end, so I can go home and get yelled at by Lorenz.”

A laugh bursts from Claude’s chest. Mouth. He is unable to stop it. Ferdinand laughs, too, and then they are laughing together, half-hysterically and clutching each other. Claude Ferdinand’s shoulders, Ferdinand Claude’s waist. 

“You should tell Lorenz,” Claude says as the laughter calms.

“And never know peace,” Ferdinand says, very serious.

They get back on task. Claude helps Ferdinand finish up his hair, and Ferdinand’s squire comes back with his horse. Ferdinand gives her further instructions and a few pointers as Claude helps him into his arming doublet and mounted armour. Isabelle goes to fetch breakfast as Ferdinand checks the condition of his great axe. 

“I have an apology,” Claude says as he helps Ferdinand with his pauldron ties.

Ferdinand raises his eyebrows, looking away from buffing a small scratch in the silver. “Oh?”

“Four and a half years ago,” he says, tying pauldron to the main plate, “I didn’t think you capable of killing me, and that is why I came to trust you.”

Ferdinand blinks. Taken aback. But, slowly, he smiles.

“Why should you apologise?” 

For a moment, it is as if they are students again. Young and bright and with such a future ahead of them. 

“To know you trust me,” Ferdinand says, soft and calm and joyful, “I couldn’t ask for more.” 

He reaches up. Curls his fingers around Claude’s hand beneath his shoulder. His eyes are warm and earnest and so very, deeply relieved.

“You are my friend.”

Things fell apart. 

There is no way to change that. 

But going forward: 

They must follow their hearts. 

**22.**

The combined forces of the Kingdom and the Alliance advance on Enbarr without notable resistance. 

Claude cannot help but feel sad. They are further supplemented by pegasi riders from Brigid as they make siege upon Fort Merceus. The riders come with reflective armour and supplies of anti-cavalry weapons, including caltrops, a weapon frowned upon in Fódlan and Almyra. Claude only realises that the riders are dropping the caltrops when he sights the incoming Imperial cavalry regiment collapsing, horses shrieking as the spurs dig into their hooves, falling or throwing their riders. 

“Dimitri!” Claude screams over the chaos. “Tell Petra—”

“Petra does not owe us fealty,” Dimitri calls down. 

She is a princess of Brigid, and they do not command an independent state. 

“Damn,” Claude swears before dismounting his horse, handing the reins to his squire, and continuing his progress on foot. 

This is far more than Edelgard could have expected. The arrival of the pegasi riders, who ignore the ballistics and duck the long-range mages, forces Imperial forces to withdraw. Dorothea is captured as she holds the defense line, allowing Hubert and other high level mages to retreat. Dimitri, Dedue, and Petra give short chase to further demoralise the Imperial troops. Claude calls Marianne to his side and watches her sheath her Levin sword as she approaches, expression wan. 

This is war. 

“Claude,” Dorothea wheezes as he approaches where Byleth and a Kingdom commander are holding her. 

She has Claude’s arrows in her chest and gut. Marianne stills her steps behind him. Three paces back. Formal and appropriate. He cannot see her face.

He is grateful for this small mercy. 

“Dorothea,” he says, almost faraway to his own ears.

She smiles at him. Blood bubbles on her lips. A hard light flashes in her eyes. He realises that Marianne has Silenced her magic. 

“I will not stray from Edie,” she says as he shoulders his bow. 

“I will not ask you to,” Claude says because it is true. 

She smiles. A little wider. A little sadder. A little cruel but not malicious at all. 

She knows that she is defeated, but Dorothea has a fighting spirit. 

Claude is sorry. 

“Then you must kill me,” she says, drawing herself up straighter even though it makes her wound bleed anew. 

_I should,_ Claude knows. 

_Why did it have to be like this,_ his heart aches. 

“Must I,” he says instead. 

Dorothea gazes at him. Bleeds. No one moves to staunch the bleeding. They cannot. She is their enemy. 

They were all friends once. 

“So you would take me prisoner, and keep me in Silence, bound and unable to choose how I live?” Dorothea shakes her head, her smile turning awful and bitter. “I never took you for someone so cruel.” 

Claude breathes in. Out. He turns. Marianne stands with her fingers steepled against each other in front of herself. She looks at Claude. There is no judgement to her gaze. She looks oddly peaceful. 

“Heal her, please,” Claude says, very faraway. “And keep her in Silence. I entrust you to take her back to Gloucester for safekeeping and ask you return with the next supply and reinforcement.”

“Yes,” Marianne says, inclining her head as he makes his way back towards the main Alliance line. 

“Life is not mercy!” Dorothea calls after him; Claude doesn’t dare turn around. “Oh, Claude, you are cruel!” 

“Don’t listen to her,” Marianne whispers just loud enough for him to hear. 

He flashes her a thumbs up over his shoulder. He is extremely glad that he sent Ferdinand to ensure safe passage Ignatz and Raphael, who were arranging an extra supply train. He is also glad that it was him and Marianne here instead of Dimitri or any of the Kingdom forces. They would have beheaded her out of duty if not for her too astute tongue. 

He is not unaffected. Claude finds himself sitting in the war room of Fort Merceus, feeling uncertain. He makes plodding progress on his update to Leonie and Hilda who have doubled back to Gautier territory to obtain further wyvern reinforcements sent directly from Almyra. Sylvain was sent back to Garreg Mach after a bad reaction to Miasma, which is why he isn’t running the errand himself. They are meant to rendezvous with him before meeting up with the front line. 

Claude gnaws on the nearly inedible crust of his dinner bread and tries to quell the scream rising in his chest. 

Footsteps on the stone. Claude looks up, teeth still gnashing against the crust. Dimitri, Dedue, and Byleth come in through the open double doors along with their dinner trays. 

“Good evening,” Dedue says. 

“Hrhm,” Claude answers around his bread. 

“An evening then,” Dedue says with a wry smile and surprising Claude enough that he nearly chokes.

“Hey, now,” Claude croaks after he gulps from his cup of heavily watered dinner wine; it’s from the fort’s cellar and far too sweet for his liking; “Where have you been hiding that sense of humour all these years?” 

“I’m not a comedian,” Dedue says, smile just as wry. 

“Dedue enjoyed Alymran entertainment,” Dimitri says as he chews his dinner, which appears to Claude’s horror to be simply ration jerky and a fist-sized chunk of cheese.

“Dima,” Claude says, already picking up his serving of boiled carrots. “Dima, no, here, real food—” 

Byleth starts laughing but also snorts wine as a consequence. Claude sets the carrots on Dimitri’s plate while Dedue offers Byleth a napkin. Dimitri stares for a long time at the carrots, brow furrowed. 

“These are yours,” he says, still looking at the carrots. 

“No, they’re yours,” Claude says, feeling upset and more than a little frustrated.

Dimitri stares at the carrots. He’s quiet as Byleth recovers and Dedue tucks into his serving of turnips. Claude picks up his abandoned bread crust. He’s just about to put it back into his mouth to vent some of his irritation when Dimitri looks up. He looks at Claude, somewhere between mullish and worried. 

“Are we… arguing?” he asks, very uncertain.

Claude pauses, his mouth half open and the bread crust just past his lips. He takes it out. Closes his mouth. He stares at Dimitri. The slightly flat affect to his expression. He has not had time to figure out what exactly is wrong with Dimitri, but this is also somehow the most normal their conversations have ever been since they were tumbling each other naïvely.

He wonders if this is how Lorenz feels all the time. No wonder he’s become such a worrywart. 

“Please eat a well-rounded diet,” Claude says, very weakly. 

“We are arguing,” Dimitri says, and he smiles, almost beatific.

Claude, half in hysterical tears, chucks his bread crust at Dimitri’s head as Byleth and Dedue laugh.

Hubert—

Back in Garreg Mach, Claude was not close to Hubert. They shared almost no mutual interests, and they kept completely different schedules. Especially as winter thawed and spring looked in through the white clouds cloud, Claude was in Dimitri’s bed. Looking back on it, he understands now that he lost sight of Edelgard then. Not because he meant to but because courting Dimitri was the most interesting puzzle he’d ever had. Losing sight of Edelgard meant overlooking Hubert for the two, like Dimitri and Dedue but also so fundamentally different, went hand in hand. 

It is, without Claude meaning it, Ferdinand who strikes the killing blow against Hubert as they take Enbarr. Claude is caught in a rare bout of bladework at the mouth an alleyway, and he only realises that Hubert has been defeated when the capitaine suddenly turns his head away. The momentary distraction means the blow that should have been parried ends up cutting so deep through the man’s throat that he is nearly decapitated. Claude ducks the worst of the spray, mind surprised but body’s instinct intact. 

This is how he comes to the scene: coated in blood splatter and the remnants of Imperial forces scattering in retreat. In desertion. Dimitri and Byleth are already there, and Ferdinand is on his knees. He holds Hubert’s right hand between both of his. Ferdinand’s great axe is through his chest. Smashed his sternum. There’s bone fragments through the flesh. The axe weighs him down against the cracked cobblestones. 

“Claude,” Byleth says, drawing all of their eyes, even Hubert who is quickly fading, “are you hurt?”

“No,” Claude says because he isn’t. 

He lets Dimitri take his right arm and wipe his face with his gloves. He can see Hubert watching the action with his fading awareness. He is too calm. His body isn’t even twitching. It is unnatural. Claude wonders, not for the first time, if Hubert has changed himself for Edelgard, too. 

“Ah,” Hubert gurgles, and blood and spittle wells through his lips; Ferdinand reaches up to clear it away; Claude sees Hubert gripping Ferdinand’s left hand. “I understand now.” 

“Hush, Hubie,” Ferdinand whispers, wiping his hand on the soiled grass. “Please, go peacefully.” 

Hubert looks to him. His eyes are clear if almost empty. He smiles, oddly soft with blood bubbling up behind his teeth, as Ferdinand places his hand back over theirs.

“Ferdie,” he whispers before his colour fades and he is gone. 

Claude, Dimitri, and Byleth stand. Ferdinand pushes himself to his feet. He looks over Hubert from his awkwardly splayed feet to his face. He reaches out. Grips his hands around the pole. He wrenches it out of Hubert’s chest with one fluid full-body motion. Claude watches how Hubert’s body jerks limply. Blood doesn’t splatter. Dimitri and Byleth both watch Ferdinand wiping his axe head on the grass. 

“Are you alright?” Byleth asks.

“No,” Ferdinand says, very calm and very reasonable. “But I am happy it was me and not someone else.” 

Dimitri and Byleth exchange looks. Claude steps forward, leaning over Hubert’s body. Looking into the massive wound. There’s something just not right, but Claude cannot tell what. He grimaces but not because Dimitri’s hand tightens on his elbow. 

“He’s done something to himself,” Claude says, slowly.

“Oh, definitely,” Ferdinand says, very matter-of-fact. 

“If it had been one of us, do you think he’d have set it off?” 

Ferdinand makes an affirmative noise. There’s the scent of something burning, which makes Claude glance up. He’s set his axe blade on Fire, eyebrows drawn tightly together as he concentrates to contain it. Cleaning. 

Claude glances to Byleth, who nods. He looks up at Dimitri, who blinks and then shifts. Back towards their field army. They need to review the troops. Connect with Felix who took the Kingdom infantry east and Hilda who went west with the Alliance infantry. Dedue and the Kingdom archers are securing the ballistics.

This is war.

And yet—

“Do you regret it?” Claude asks as they pass beneath a clothesline half fallen between two buildings. 

Dimitri looks at him. Distant and somewhat unmoored. Claude reaches out. Presses his fingers against the palm of Dimitri’s left hand. Dimitri blinks. Closes their fingers together so tightly it hurts.

“Regret what?”

Claude does not live to accumulate regrets, but this:

“Do you regret allowing me to court you?”

Dimitri shakes his head. His hair flops back and forth with the motion. His eye is dim but focused. He does not break Claude’s gaze.

“No,” he says.

He shifts. Brings his right hand to cup Claude’s cheek. He leans down and presses his brow to the crown of Claude’s head.

“When I am with you, I am at peace.”


	9. Chapter 9

**23.**

They confront Edelgard in the throne room. 

There are terrible things in this world. They lead people to war and murder and torture. They make people hurt the ones they love the most. It is not because people are malicious. It is not because they are cruel. They commit terrible deeds because they believe they must. 

Even knowing this, to see what Edelgard is willing to become gives Claude pause. There are many things he does not entirely understand about Fódlan, but this is where he draws a hardline in the sand. He heard about Miklan. He has battled Fell Beasts and the sinister people who look to defy the natural order of things. He knows, deep down in his heart, that the war will not truly be ended until those people are found and destroyed. 

But even knowing that those people are the great enemy, Edelgard still waged her war. The Hegemon that rises over the castle and makes it their battlefield is her. She is aware and lucid and logical, and she is a terrific opponent. Claude swallows and raises Failnaught and tries not to listen to Dimitri roaring with each of Edelgard’s strikes. 

_Mercedes and Byleth are covering him,_ Claude tries to tell himself. 

_Dimitri has access to the convoy if he needs more Concoctions,_ he tries to reassure himself. 

“Damn,” he curses as he looses his arrow into the neck of an Imperial mage. “_Damn._”

He doesn’t try to attract her attention. That would only serve to distract Dimitri, and Claude knows that his battle madness is only effective when there’s one objective. He promised to bring Claude Edelgard’s head. Before this, as they quickly ate and repaired armour and checked weapons, Dimitri had pressed his lips to Claude’s head and confessed:

“It is silly, perhaps, to come this far and have doubts, but I would have liked to speak with her. If there was another way… I am a weak man, I guess.”

“No,” Claude had said with his hands in Dimitri’s hair, his palms pressing upon the chain. “You are human.” 

For that, as Claude climbs the steps of the throne, as he watches Dimitri extend a hand, as he watches Edelgard throw a dagger thin and small and made for a child’s hand, as he watches it strike Dimitri too far to the left to be true, as he watch Dimitri drive Edelgard through with Areadbhar, as he watches the light fade from Edelgard’s eyes as he takes Dimitri’s weight and kisses his brow: 

They are human. 

“Dima,” Claude says, screams, shouts: 

“It is done.” 

**24.**

The war ends on a mild spring afternoon. 

Dimitri is taken from Claude’s arms by Mercedes and Byleth for an intensive healing session. Claude is not injured beyond a few scrapes and bruises that a Concoction heals. He needs to be responsible. A leader. He needs to take stock of their troops. He needs to check their supplies. He needs, most urgently, to send a herald to the Bridge and another to Garreg Mach and then one to Fhirdiad to spread the news: 

_Edelgard von Hresvleg is dead! _

_War is ended!_

_Make ready for the triumphant return of Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, Rightful King of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, and Claude, Duke Riegan of the Leicester Alliance! _

“Does it have to be worded like that?” Claude asks, faintly aghast.

Seteth, whom Claude hasn’t seen since he was eighteen, and Gilbert exchange looks. Claude wonders if Dimitri doesn’t question them on matters like this. He’s too mild in the realm of policy, Claude has noticed. He is aware that Dimitri has an awkward relationship with politics and its maneuvering, more suited to action and eager to get into the weeds. He’s rather like Holst in that sense. 

Claude’s stomach, which he did unfortunately empty the first time Dimitri was hit by Edelgard’s ranged attacks, clenches. Not quite nausea. More frustration. 

_I wonder if I’m going to be prone to ulcers,_ he thinks, more resigned than anything else. 

“What part do you take issue with, Duke Riegan?” Gilbert asks.

He speaks with the solid mildness bred of a lifetime serving willful lords. To Claude’s knowledge, Gilbert is a good knight and adequate shield even in his advancing years, but he does not strike Claude as someone willing to challenge his lord nor engage in extended negotiations. Claude guesses that role was Rodrigue’s in the dynamic of the court prior to the Tragedy of Duscar. 

Rodrigue is dead. Claude is not sure of the circumstances, but it happened while the Kingdom advanced through Bergliez territory. Dimitri mentioned it only shortly, clearly not ready to delve into specifics, and Dedue declined to answer Claude’s inquiring gaze. From the road report, Claude understands he died honorably as the rightful King’s shield. Probably thwarting an assasination attempt. Ferdinand, after reading through the named Imperial dead, had turned an interesting shade of gray. 

“Well,” he’d said after Claude poured them both more of the too sweet Fort Merceus wine, “that is the House Bergliez ended.”

“I thought so,” Claude said after swallowing his mouthful of wine. 

“House Varley may be ended as well,” Ferdinand chose to tell him then because it was relevant. “We are not sure if Bernadetta made it off Gronder Field alive.” 

Claude was suddenly very glad that it was only the two of them in the war room. Dimitri and Dedue had gone to bed, exhausted from traveling. Byleth had just left to go take a bath. 

“So with this campaign, we risk ending half if not more of the Empire’s ruling families?” 

“Well,” and Ferdinand broke into a tittering; he grimaced and set his wine cup down, pushing it far away from himself; “House Bergliez has no legitimate heirs and is therefore naturally ended. Houses Hresvleg and Vestra, should we have success, will be ended similarly. House Arundel is ended, having been held by an imposter for who knows how long. The current Viscount Hyrm, which Mercedes has confirmed, was involved with the issue of House Bartel; in the law of the Kingdom and the Empire, this could dissolve both houses. House Varley is likely ended. This leaves the House Hevring, the beleaguered House Gerth, the ruined House Nuvelle, and, of course, me, the Duke Aegir. I do not know if you can count Aegir as a Noble House _of the Adrestian Empire_ any longer.”

“We don’t take oaths of fealty in the Alliance,” Claude said because Ferdinand was looking at him a bit too intensely.

“Houses Gloucester and Riegan did essentially accept me and my people as vassal when you granted my request of shelter,” Ferdinand pointed out.

“Ferdinand,” Claude said, very tired.

Ferdinand smiled. It was equally tired.

“I plan,” he said, very gently, “to swear fealty to the House Blaiddyd after Dimitri and you are wed.”

“You sly dog,” Claude sighed because there was nothing else he could say to that.

Claude realises he has been staring at the herald announcement for far too long. His stomach rolls again. Claude grimaces, rummaging with his supply pouch. Extracts a vial of Antitoxin. He reads back over the announcement as he uncorks the vial with his teeth. Swallows the Antitoxin. It at least temporarily makes his stomach settle. He shoves the empty vial and cork back into his pouch.

“Take out ‘war is ended’,” he says, offering the parchment back to Seteth. 

“Rhea has been recovered,” Seteth points out as he accepts the parchment. “The forces of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus and the Leicester Alliance have restored the sanctity of the Church of Seiros. War is ended. If you worry it is premature –”

“Take it out,” Claude says, more forcefully. “We make a triumphant return. That is enough.”

Seteth and Gilbert glance at each other again. Claude is just about to lose his patience and bash their heads together when Hilda enters from the refectory off the throne room. Her expression is drawn, and she only briefly nods to Seteth and Gilbert in acknowledgement.

“Claude,” Hilda says, very tightly, “you need to come see this.” 

There are dead Fell Beasts and half-transformed beings piled up in the former wine cellars. Claude joins Ferdinand and Marianne on the edge of the mess. Everything smells of magic and rot, although the bodies do not seem to be decaying as natural flesh should. Marianne looks resigned in an odd, unfamiliar way. Ferdinand just looks exhausted. 

“This is too much to clean up here,” Marianne is saying to Ferdinand, who nods tiredly. “We’ll have to take some of this outside of the city walls.” 

“No,” Ferdinand says, somewhat distantly. “This much will poison the ground and get into the water supply. Enbarr depends on groundwater.” 

“Should we transport some elsewhere?” Claude asks, drawing their attention. 

“We could,” Marianne says, her hands drifting absently to steeple in front of herself. “These things do not decompose. The best place to deal with them is on consecrated ground.” 

“Garreg Mach,” Claude nods as he watches Ferdinand use the blunt of his great axe to poke a clawed hand. “Seteth won’t be happy about that.”

“No,” Marianne murmurs.

Claude eyes the hand that Ferdinand is still poking. “Are we sure none of these are alive?”

“Yes,” Ferdinand says, looking to Claude and righting his axe. “There are several Dark Mages being cooperative. They said these have all been dead for about a week.”

Since Dorothea was captured at Fort Merceus. Claude worries the inside of his bottom lip before sighing. 

“Lysithea is watching them,” Marianne adds, motioning to a door that Claude assumes leads to a non-Fell Beast and failed experiment-filled room. “They’re scholars. I’m not sure if they can even cast Miasma.”

_I have a stomachache,_ Claude is very tempted to say.

“I will speak with them,” he says instead, although he knows he sounds worn at best. “Could someone go check on Dima?”

“I’ll go,” Ferdinand says, shouldering his axe.

“Why do you call him—” Marianne starts before it dawns on her and her mouth forms a small _o_.

Claude is way too tired for this. He moves towards the door and listens to Marianne fall into step behind him. Three paces back exactly. Ferdinand moves in the opposite direction, steps slightly uneven as he favours one of his legs. 

Not for the first time, Claude vaguely regrets deciding not to summon Lorenz to take Enbarr. At the same time, the Lady Gloucester is currently bedridden, and Claude does not want to be unnecessarily needy. With Marianne here, Lorenz is not technically necessary for battlefield support. 

The Dark Mages are all about Hanneman’s age. They stand when Marianne and Claude enter the room. A couple of them even bow. Lysithea remains sitting on a wooden stool. She rolls her eyes. 

“Hey, Claude, Marianne,” she says before jabbing her finger at the mage furthest to the right. “I think that one’s the best at speaking in layman’s terms.” 

“Right,” Claude sighs. “Let’s get stuck in.”

**25.**

Claude, as he lowers himself with a groan into the communal bath in the servants quarters, feels like his brain has become mush. 

“What idiot decides to call a clandestine group ‘Those Who Slither in the Dark’?” 

Dimitri, sitting on a stool in the bath so as to not submerge his bandaged left shoulder, shrugs his right shoulder. Dedue, who looked like he was about to doze off shoulder-deep in the water when Claude entered, shakes his head. Claude blows out an explosive sigh and crosses over where someone has been so kind to put Annette’s finger biscuits and slightly bruised stone fruit from the convoy on a raised tray. He shoves a biscuit in his mouth. It is possibly the best thing he has ever eaten. 

“It’s a stupid name,” he says through the biscuit as he reaches for another.

He’s on his third biscuit when Ferdinand enters. Dimitri and Dedue murmur greetings as Claude waves, his mouth full. 

“How’s your leg?” Dedue asks as Ferdinand shuffles to put his towel on the bench. 

“Oh,” Ferdinand says, looking down at the knot of newly Healed tissue on the outer side of his right thigh. “It’ll be fine. Manuela and Mercedes don’t even think it’ll scar much.”

“Good to know,” Claude says before putting a fourth and last biscuit for now into his mouth. 

He moves away from the tray. Dimitri, who had been watching Claude eat, perks up a bit as Claude moves to sit at his side. 

“Are they good?”

Claude, in the process of putting water and soap in his hair, blinks. “The biscuits? Yes. Do you want one?”

Dimitri shakes his head. “I had one earlier.”

Claude, bending forward to dunk his head into the bath, doesn’t quite understand why Dimitri would ask. That is, like many subjects, a question for later. When they may be in private. When, perhaps, they haven’t been awake for far too many hours and in the dregs of battle adrenaline. 

When Claude resurfaces, Dimitri is looking at him still. Dedue has laid his head back against the side of the pool and shut his eyes. Ferdinand has descended into the bath, settling himself with his back to the door. Claude realises, despite himself and like both Dimitri and Dedue, he is facing the door. 

He wonders if this will ever change. If he can change. The world that he dreamed of in his idealistic teenage years is in his grasp, Those Who Slither in the Dark beside. But the world is not an easy place. He does not want another war. Not like this. 

No one wants this, Claude understands. Even though Edelgard believed in her actions, he still has to hold onto the belief that she did not want it to come to war. She did not want to send Hubert, Dorothea, Bernadetta, Caspar, or anyone else into battle. She couldn’t have. 

If she had, she would have aimed for Dimitri’s heart. 

“Claude,” Dimitri’s voice filters in, soft and a little worried. “What are you thinking about?”

Claude looks to him. Up. Dimitri, at this angle, has to turn his head fully to see Claude. The night they shared in Gloucester, the eyepatch had come off while Dimitri spent time between Claude’s legs. The eye is still there beneath, milky and uneven. They hadn’t talked about it then because it wasn’t the time. 

“Time,” he says.

Dimitri hums. He looks down into the water, somewhere between his feet and Claude’s knees. Claude wonders if his upper body is cold out of the water. He can hear both Dedue and Ferdinand shifting around. Dedue probably will be getting out soon. Ferdinand, Claude guesses, needs to wash his hair. 

“I suspect,” Dimitri says to his feet and Claude’s knees, “the Church will want to marry us.”

“It’ll be a big fuss now, won’t it,” Claude sighs, tilting his head back to rest on the side of the pool; the ceiling of the royal bath has images of dragons and eagles. “I will have to contact my parents.”

“They will want a say in it,” Dimitri agrees; Claude glances at him to see his eye is unfocused. “I am still not sure your mother approves of…”

He motions vaguely from his face down. Claude frowns. 

“She added to the chain.” 

“Yes,” Dimitri agrees before smiling, more than a little self-depreciating. “She approved of the match in reflection of my standing and demonstration that I would not stray. She disapproves of my personality.” 

The battle madness valued by the Almyran court paired with Faerghus restraint. It creates obtuseness that Claude himself doesn’t like. He imagines his mother, who never approved of her previous Faerghus and Adrestian suitors, finds it to be the worst of both worlds. 

Claude’s brain abruptly backtracks on the conversation. He sits up straighter, blinking.

“What do you mean, demonstration you wouldn’t stray?” he asks.

Dimitri stares doggedly down into the water as he turns faintly pink. Claude watches his hands sift under the water, rubbing awkwardly over his thighs. It’s oddly erotic. Claude looks up swiftly to see Ferdinand looking hurriedly back and forth, having unfortunately read the atmosphere.

“Your Highness,” Dedue’s voice filters in even as Dimitri shakes his head, turning pinker.

“Your father,” Dimitri says, still rubbing his hands on his thighs; Claude stares at the door above Ferdinand’s head. “He introduced me around, and I, I think he thought it was amusing aside from testing me. How poor I am with… others.”

Claude stares at the door. There are red splotches on the edges of his vision. Perhaps it is better he has not heard directly from his parents since the start of the war. 

“I’m sorry about him,” he says because he feels compelled to apologise.

“No,” Dimitri starts.

“He is insistent,” Dedue points out.

“I’ll write my mother and tell him to stop,” Claude says, perhaps more intensely than he intended because Ferdinand looks at him in alarm. 

“That isn’t necessary,” Dimitri says, rather small.

Claude opens his mouth, ready to argue further, but is able with the restraint he has learned over the past four and a half years to stop himself. He closes his mouth and shuts his eyes until the rage tapers off enough that he can open his eyes without the red. He glances up at Dimitri, who looks at him with an expression between fascinated and uncertain. 

“It is courting,” Dimitri says, hesitantly. 

“Dima,” Claude growls, reaching out and curling his hand around Dimitri’s right ankle. “Do you think that my parents got together by following any rules of courting.” 

Across from them, Ferdinand begins to hurry through washing himself. Dedue moves towards the short stairwell, not looking at either of them. He seems very interested in the door. Dimitri glances at them, very awkwardly, and then back to Claude, somewhat more awkwardly.

“We didn’t really follow the rules either,” he points out.

“_Dima,_” Claude says, exasperated.

“Well!” Ferdinand says, drawing both Claude and Dimitri’s attention as he hoists himself out of the pool. “This has been a very busy day. Evening. Good evening!”

He grabs his towel and scurries out the door after Dedue, leaving his soap wad behind. Claude feels faintly apologetic because it isn’t as if they are all bathing together because they want to. The other baths are currently occupied by the regular troops, and the women are in the guest bath. The castle is simply not equip to handle the combined field armies of the Kingdom and the Alliance. Of whatever all of this will become. 

“It has been a very busy day,” Claude says, still looking at the now closed door. 

“Mhm,” Dimitri responds. 

They sit for a while. The water is starting to turn warm from hot. Claude does not let go of Dimitri’s ankle, and Dimitri makes no move to make him. This close, Claude can see the calluses on Dimitri’s toes. The roughness to the soles of his feet. There are so many things they need to do. So much they need to address. 

“How are you feeling?”

Dimitri blinks. His eye, which hadn’t left Claude, refocuses. He pauses for a moment, a little too longer to be comfortable. Claude squeezes his ankle. He wonders, a little sadly, if he’ll spend his life waiting for Dimitri. There is a part of him that has never been fully present. 

Claude can guess at why this is. Back in their academy days, there was a part that Dimitri hid under his chivalric exterior. That darkness woke Claude as Dimitri held him so easily against his bedroom wall. He never feared for his life. He had, blindingly, wanted nothing more than to keep Dimitri to himself. That primal and inherently honest display: Claude adored Dimitri from that moment forward. 

Because, unlike what Claude’s father and likely others think, Dimitri is not beastly. He is not a boar. He is human and raw with it, and that openness is the greatest puzzle Claude has ever encountered. It is something that is all Dimitri. It is what won Claude’s father over. But it is not all of him. 

For Dimitri is, at times despite himself, a kind person. Claude’s mother wouldn’t have added to the chain otherwise. That kindness is why his dancing, although imperfect, still inspires. It is why his wyvern and the horses adore his attentions. 

And it is why Dimitri, confronting Edelgard, hesitated. He pledged to bring Claude her head. To see the war ended. To see his house restored. But he is kind, just as he has always been. 

Claude made war for Dimitri. For himself. 

They did not change towards each other. 

They have kept their promises. 

Everything comes with a cost. 

“We,” Dimitri says, after a silence so long it is lost between them both, “have so much to do. To make things right.”

Claude squeezes his ankle. Dimitri leans down, somewhat awkwardly due to his shoulder. He noses the crown of Claude’s head. This close, Claude can smell Dimitri’s soap. It has rose oil. 

“We do,” Claude whispers.

He would do anything if it meant they could be like this for now. Tomorrow. A week or a month or years from now. Just for these moments:

“We can do it together,” Claude says.

“Yes,” Dimitri says, and he rests his brow against Claude’s upturned face, breathes against Claude’s lip as he leans up:

“Yes.”


End file.
